The Black Bird
by Twyla Mercedes
Summary: A mysterious woman and a cynical detective work together to regain a valuable artifact. They're thwarted by a trio of other treasure seekers, police investigating multiple murders, and an old would-be lover. (Movie Re-Mix)
1. Chapter 1

**The Black Bird**

 **Chapter 1**

 **Damsel in Distress**

It would have been easy to miss unless a person was looking for it. The address was 55 ½ Heywood Street. It was in between two benign storefronts, a dress shop and a bakery, in the upstairs office off a flight of stairs and a short, dark hallway.

For the past ten minutes, a young woman had been walking up and down that short, dark hallway, her shadow periodically cutting the light that came through the frosted glass of the window in the outer office door.

The receptionist had kept an eye on her. Tilly had seen this type of thing before. Usually, it was a timid client, someone who had never had the need to consult with a private detective and was unsure if they really wanted to go these lengths to get the goods on their cheating spouse. Sometimes, it was the cheating spouse who knew they'd been caught and wanted to negotiate for the findings. Sometimes it was an enraged girlfriend of one of the two detectives, usually Gary Gaston's, who was working up the courage to come in with a loaded pistol to threaten to blow his nuts off.

The figure paused and Tilly braced herself. The woman that came through was a petite, blue-eyed brunette, dressed in a stylish navy-blue suit with a pristine white lacy blouse. A dark mink stole shrug was wrapped around her shoulders. The skirt was too short, showing off trim legs set in high shiny black heels.

"Hello," Tilly greeted the woman. "How may I help you?"

"I . . . I think I need to see a detective. Do I need an appointment?" She was still unsure of herself.

"I think Mr. Weaver may be available," Tilly told her. She gave her a smile and dialed the inner office. "Mr. Weaver, there's a Miss. . . . " she looked at the young woman.

"Uhmm . . . O'Shaughnessy . . . Bridget O'Shaughnessy," the woman stammered out.

"A Miss O'Shaughnessy to see you." Tilly listened and nodded. "Of course, sir." She hung up the phone. "Mr. Weaver will see you now." She got up and led Miss O'Shaughnessy through one of the two doors behind her desk.

The young woman looked around nervously and her eyes fastened on the man behind the walnut desk. Middle-aged, with brown hair, a hint of grey, probably brown eyes, but it was hard to see for sure in the dim light of his office. He was dressed casually - a clean white shirt tucked into suit pants. He lacked a tie and the shirt was open at the neck. He gestured to one of the green leather upholstered chairs next to his desk.

She moved toward the chair, momentarily startled when Tilly closed the door behind her. The young woman hesitated, looking around anxiously, but then sat down in the chair. "Thank you," she said in a soft voice. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her jacket pocket and dabbed her eyes.

The man looked her over, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. "Now what can I do for you, Miss O'Shaughnessy?"

The young woman caught her breath. Obviously nervous, she broke eye contact with him, swallowed and looked aimlessly around the room again. She bit her lower lip. "I need. . . I thought . . . Could you . . . I . . . That is . . . " she stammered.

Mr. Weaver gave her a gentle smile. "Suppose you tell me about it from the very beginning," he suggested kindly.

"It began in New York . . ." the young woman began.

"Uh hum," Weaver responded.

"I don't know how she met him in New York. She's so much younger than I am . . . only seventeen. We don't have the same friends or associate with any of the same people. You see, our mother's dead. Our father is often away with his business. I'm actually glad about that. It might kill him to know . . . ." She looked up, tears in her eyes, her hands twisting the handkerchief. "Oh, I've got to get her back before he gets home."

Weaver nodded, as though everything she was saying made sense to him.

"He should be home the first of the month."

"Well, that gives us two weeks," Weaver told her.

"I didn't know what she had done until her letter came in. And then I was frantic, trying to decide what to do. I didn't know what to do. What should I do?" Her bottom lip was trembling and tears were pooling in her eyes. She dabbed her eyes again.

"Tell me about the letter. Do you have a copy of it?" Weaver encouraged her in soft tones like he might use with a child upset because someone had taken their favorite toy.

"Oh no. I guess I should have brought it with me. I'm sorry," she told him, her big blue eyes looking sorrowfully at him.

"It's not a big deal. Go on," he told her.

"I tried to write her back, but I don't know if she ever received my letter. It went to a post office box here in Charleston. I never got anything back from her. I tried to call her, but she didn't answer any of the numbers I had. I waited a week, hoping I'd hear from her again, but there was no other communication. She didn't write, she didn't call. I finally wrote her again to let her know I was coming here to get her." The young woman looked up at him. "I probably shouldn't have done that, should I?"

"It's not always easy to know what to do. I take it, you haven't found her?"

"I told her I would meet her at the Grand Bohemian, the big hotel in Francis Marion Village. But I've been waiting there, now it's been three days, and she hasn't been or left a message or anything."

Weaver nodded sympathetically.

"It's been horrible! The waiting . . . ! Not knowing what's happened to her . . . what might be happening to her! I keep trying to get in touch with her on the phone and through every address she's ever had . . . but nothing."

She wiped away more tears and sniffed.

"But then yesterday, I saw him. I . . . saw . . . Keith Nottingham." She shuddered. "Of course, he wouldn't tell me where she was. He wouldn't tell me anything, except that she was well and happy. But he would say that, wouldn't he?"

"Could be true," Weaver told her.

"I hope, I really hope, it is true. But. . . but. . . he told me that she didn't want to see me. I can't believe that. He promised to tell her that he'd seen me, and he would bring her to see me - if she would come, to the Hotel this evening. He said that he didn't think she'd come. He promised to come himself if she didn't."

Both the young woman and Weaver were momentarily distracted when the door to Weaver's office opened. It was a handsome, younger man.

"Oh, excuse me," the man said.

"It's all right, Gary. Come in. Miss O'Shaughnessy, this is Mr. Gaston, my partner."

Gary smiled at Miss O'Shaughnessy, shutting the door behind his back.

"Miss O'Shaughnessy's. . . " Weaver paused, "sister?" Miss O'Shaughnessy nodded. " . . . ran away from New York with a fellow named Keith Nottingham. They're here in Charleston. Miss O'Shaughnessy has seen Nottingham and has a date to see him again tonight. Maybe, maybe he'll bring her sister with him. The chances are he won't. Miss O'Shaughnessy wants us to find the sister and get her away from him, so she can take her back home." Weaver looked back at Miss O'Shaughnessy. "Right?"

Miss O'Shaughnessy nodded, enormously relieved that he had understood her ramblings, and looked down in her lap, "Yes."

Gary looked the young woman over with a keen, appreciative eye, his gaze lingering on her shapely legs.

Weaver continued, "It's a simple matter of having a man at the Hotel this evening to shadow this Nottingham fellow when he leaves. He'll lead us back to your sister. After we've found her. . . we'll see if she wants to leave him."

Miss O'Shaughnessy looked up. "You must be careful," her voice was shaking. "I'm deathly afraid of him . . . of what he might do. My sister is very young and his bringing her here from New York is such a serious . . . " her voice broke and she dabbed her eyes once again with her now soddened handkerchief.

Weaver gave her a reassuring smile. "You just leave him to us. We'll know how to handle him."

Miss O'Shaughnessy looked at him. "I want you to know that he's a dangerous man, very dangerous. I honestly don't think he'd stop at anything. I don't believe he'd hesitate to kill my sister if he thought it would save him."

Gary asked her the next question, "Can he cover things up by marrying her?"

"He already has a wife and three children in Chicago," she told him.

Weaver smirked, "They usually do, although not always in Chicago. Now, what does he look like?"

"Big man. Dark hair, dark glasses. He talks loudly and gives the impression of being . . . a violent person."

"Thin, medium, heavy-set?" Weaver continued getting a description.

"Strong-looking. He works out. This morning he was wearing a white shirt and dark green pants."

Weaver nodded. "Do you know what he does for a living?"

"Oh, I haven't the slightest idea," Miss O'Shaughnessy told him.

"Well, what time is he coming to see you?" Weaver continued to follow up.

"Eight o'clock," Miss O'Shaughnessy answered.

"All right, Miss O'Shaughnessy. We'll have a man there for you," Weaver promised her.

"I'll look after this myself," Gary spoke up.

Miss O'Shaughnessy turned to Gary, "Oh thank you, thank you." She opened her handbag, her hands shaking. She brought out three bills and laid them on Weaver's desk.

"Will that be enough?" she asked, her blue eyes wide and trusting.

Weaver nodded. He stood and came around to her, holding out his hand to her. She took it and rose, "Thank you. Thank you," she said.

"Not at all," he told her. "It will help us if you meet him in the lobby of the Hotel."

"I can do that."

"You won't have to look for me," Gary told her. "I'll see you"

Miss O'Shaughnessy nodded, and Weaver accompanied her to the door.

"Thank you," she said one more time before she left.

Weaver returned to his desk and examined one of the three bills she had left.

"These look all right," he told his partner.

Gary picked up one of the bills.

"What did you think of her?" Weaver asked his partner.

"Sweet. Maybe you saw her first, but I spoke first," Gary told him.

"Always game for a damsel in distress, I see."

"Well . . . yeah. You saw those legs, that face. I'm sure the rest of her matches."

"Watch yourself," Weaver told his partner. "I don't know what game she's playing, but she's sure as hell isn't looking for her sister."

 **After One**

It was dark. The clock said it was just past one o'clock. His phone was ringing. Weaver swore, then fumbled for it and picked it up.

"Yeah? . . . . Yeah, that's me . . . . What? . . . Dead? . . . . Yeah. . . . I can be there in twenty minutes . . . Where? . . . . Sure. . . .All right."

Weaver sat on the side of his bed and ran his fingers through his hair. He sat for a moment before sighing and getting up to pull some jeans on over his boxers. He grabbed a shirt and an old Guernsey sweater. He then pulled out some socks, putting them on before slipping on his shoes.

 **The Scene of the Murder**

"What do you want back here?" It was a police officer.

"I'm Weaver. Swan called me."

The police officer shone a light in his face. "Oh yeah. I didn't know you at first. They're back there," he pointed over his shoulder.

They were standing on top of a clay bank, off the road. It was cold, and the air was damp. Weaver glanced down the gully and he could see his partner's body, lying face down.

"Hey, Weaver." It was an attractive young woman, dressed in black pants topped with a worn leather jacket, her long blonde hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, her badge on her belt.

"Swan," he greeted her.

"I figured you'd want to see this before we took him away."

"Yeah, Swan. Thanks. What happened?"

"Got him right through the heart, close range. I'd guess a small caliber handgun."

"How'd it happen?"

"Preliminary investigation suggests he was standing where you are and the person that shot him was over there. Gaston was shot and then tipped over backward and fell down the gully."

"Who found him? Weaver asked.

"Some people called in when they thought they'd heard a shot. A patrolman investigating the area chanced on him. Do you want to look at him before we move him?" she asked him.

"No. I trust your work, Swan. Was his gun out?" Weaver asked.

"Nope. It was still tucked away on his hip. It hadn't been fired. There was a hundred dollar bill in his shirt pocket. Was he working, Weaver?"

Weaver hesitated a moment and nodded.

"Well?" Swan asked him.

"He was tailing a guy named Keith Nottingham."

"What for?"

Weaver put his hands in his pocket and yawned.

"What for?" she asked him again.

"Trying to find out where he lives." Weaver ran his fingers through his hair. "I can give Gary's wife a call. Might be easier hearing it from me."

"Sure, Weaver." She shook her head. "That's tough, him getting it like that. Gaston had his faults, I know, but he must have had some good points too."

"I guess," Weaver responded. He nodded and returned to his car. He drove back to his downtown apartment and called Tilly.

"Tilly, Precious, I'm sorry to call you at this hour . . . Yeah, honey . . . Listen, Gary's been shot. . . . Yes, he's dead. . . . Can you go over to Zelena's? . . . Yeah, I'm gonna give her a call and break the news. . . . I think someone should be with her. . . I knew I could count on you. And listen, please keep her away from me . . . . Right, I don't want to have to comfort the grieving widow . . . Thanks."

He poured himself some Johnny Walker then pulled off his Guernsey finding it too warm for inside wear. He sat on the side of his bed in his pants and undershirt and sipped his drink. He gave it twenty minutes before he made his second call to Gary's widow.

 **After Two**

Afterward, he'd lain back down, knowing he wouldn't get to sleep, trying to sort through Miss O'Shaughnessy's case. She'd warned them that Nottingham was dangerous, and it appeared she'd been right. He didn't have a way to get in touch with her. He'd have to wait for her to contact him.

He also thought about Zelena's response to his news. She hadn't seemed all that surprised or upset when he'd told her. Tilly was there and Zelena had promised him that she'd be okay.

It was now past two o'clock, and he heard someone knocking at his door. He poured himself a second Johnny Walker before going to the door.

He opened the door partway, the chain preventing it from opening all the way. He was now looking at Swan and her second, Graham Wolfe.

"Hello, Swan," he greeted her, closing the door, sliding the chain and opening the door to let them in.

They sat in Weaver's small living room. There was a short sofa, two upholstered chairs, and a coffee table littered with newspapers, paper plates, and coffee cups. In another corner were a couple of chairs set about a table piled high with random papers.

"Did you break the news to Gary's wife?" Swan asked him.

"Yeah," Weaver answered.

"How'd she take it?"

"I don't know. I'm not good at reading women."

"Oh, since when?" Swan asked.

Abruptly her partner spoke up. "What kind of gun do you carry?" Wolfe asked.

"None," Weaver answered instantly. "I don't like guns. Of course, there are some at the office."

"You don't happen to have one here?" Wolfe asked.

Weaver shook his head.

"You sure of that?"

Weaver smiled "Look around. . . " He picked up his glass and emptied it. "Turn the dump upside-down if you want. I won't squawk . . . Oh, I assume you've got a search warrant."

Swan frowned, "We're not wanting to make any trouble, Weaver."

"But what? You think I killed Gary? You think I killed my partner?" Weaver allowed his anger to come through.

Swan shook her head. "It's possible. There's a rumor you were stepping out with his wife. You could've taken the opportunity to blow him away and blame it on this Nottingham character. Why were you tailing Nottingham?"

"I wasn't," Weaver responded. "We had a client who was paying good money to have him tailed."

"Who's this client?" Swan persisted.

"Oh no, sorry, can't tell you that."

"We know you didn't go to Gary's house to tell Zelena about the death. You sent Tilly, your girl. Now, I'm giving you ten minutes to call Tilly, then ten minutes to get to get to Nottingham's place," Swan told him.

"What?" _What the hell was she talking about?_

Swan explained, "Nottingham was found shot about half hour after you left Gaston's scene of death."

"Nottingham's dead?" _This was unexpected_. "Oh, now I understand. You think I went after Nottingham to avenge Gary. Hell, after I was with you, Swan, I came back here and then I called Tilly. Then I fixed a drink. Then I called Zelena. Then I lay down for a few minutes, you arrived and finally, I fixed a second drink. I can assure you I had no idea where Nottingham was hiding out, or even what he looked like or. . . anything. I somehow doubt I had enough time to take a side trip to kill the man. Somebody else took him out," Weaver seemed irritated.

Swan considered. "Yeah, I thought the timeline was a little tight, but you know, I have to ask."

"Well, I'm glad you're satisfied. You will let me know when you make an arrest for Gary's death?"

Swan chuckled. "Maybe. Depends what mood I'm in." She started out the door but then relented. "I will tell you that Nottingham had a stash of handguns – I wouldn't be surprised to find out that one of them was used in Gaston's death."

"Thanks. Stay in a good mood, Swan, and keep me in the loop on Nottingham's death, too, would you," Weaver suggested.

"Yeah, I'll see what I can do." She didn't sound particularly committed.

 **Next Morning**

Weaver went into his office early the next morning. Tilly had beat him in. She looked up from her desk as he walked into the front office.

"She's in there," she whispered and nodded at his office.

"I told you to keep her away!"

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me _how_ to keep her away. Listen, I had her all night, Boss."

Weaver relented, "Yeah, I'm sorry, Precious. I'll deal with it."

He entered into his office to find a black-clothed red-head with a tear-stained face. She rushed him, "Weaver, darling." And she kissed him. He gently set her back from him.

"Sorry about Gary," he told her.

"Did . . . did you kill him?" the woman asked him.

 _NEXT: 'Miss O'Shaughnessy' pleads for Weaver's help, but isn't forthcoming with what is really going on. Weaver meets another character who asks for his help._

 **A.N. For those of you who know _film noir_ movies, this is obviously a re-mix of _The Maltese Falcon_. While an amazing film, the script is damn near incomprehensible and (unfortunately) Mary Astor's character (Miss O'Shaughnessy) isn't particularly likable or attractive. I've worked to make her smarter, sexier and a woman with her own agenda, so I will be deviating a bit from the plot line ('cause I just gotta have a happy ending). Enjoy - Twyla**


	2. A Hopeless Mess

_After accepting a case from a lovely, but mysterious client, everything has fallen apart. Weaver's partner, Gary Gaston, has been killed along with the man – Keith Nottingham - that his partner was tailing for the mysterious client. The police have accused Weaver of murdering both Gaston and Nottingham. He's now been accused of murdering Gaston by the 'distraught' widow._

 **Chapter 2**

 **A Hopeless Mess**

"Did . . . did you kill him? Did you kill Gary?" Zelena asked him.

"What? Who the hell put that idea into your head?" Weaver wasn't pleased to hear this question.

"I thought . . . I thought it would be a way for us to be together," she told him, tears running down her face.

"Zelena, I thought we had resolved this. We have never been together. We were never meant to be together. And you would not want to be with a man who would kill your husband just so you could be together. Now, dearie," he spoke more softly. "You shouldn't have come here today. You should be home."

"You'll come to see me . . . soon?"

"As soon as I can," he replied and guided her to the door, opening it. "Now, goodbye, Zelena." He shut the door behind her and went back to his desk.

He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there, brooding, when Tilly peeked in.

"How did you and The Widow make out?"

"She thinks I shot Gary."

"What? So, you could marry her? Euuh." Tilly shook her head.

"Yeah. The police think I shot Gary and Nottingham, the guy Gary was tailing."

Tilly came over and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. She pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker and a paper cup. She poured a drink and handed it off to him.

"Thanks, Angel."

"You aren't planning on marrying Zelena, are you?" she asked him.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, no. I wish I had never laid eyes on the woman."

Tilly hesitated. "Do you think Zelena could have killed Gary?"

Weaver hadn't considered this, but he knew Tilly was smart and savvy about people. "What? Why would you ask that?"

Tilly licked her lips. "Suppose I told you that Zelena hadn't been home very long before I got there after one in the morning to break the news to her."

Weaver was interested. "How do you know that?"

"The hood of her car was hot like it had been driven recently. She kept me waiting at the door for a while, too. She was in a nightdress when she finally answered. Her clothes had been dumped on a chair and the slip on top of the stack was warm. She still had on all her makeup. The bed had been wrinkled up, but the wrinkles weren't mashed down."

Weaver shook his head. "Maybe she'd just been out barhopping. I don't know that she would have wanted Gary dead . . . " he trailed off.

"I don't know of any reason why she wouldn't have wanted him dead," Tilly informed him. "They both cheated on each other. They often had screaming, knock-down drag-out fights. I also happen to know that there's a half-million dollar insurance policy on him that made him worth more to her dead than alive."

"But is she capable of killing a man?"

Tilly narrowed her eyes. "Oh, please. She's capable of drowning puppies for a nickel a head. Yeah, yeah, she could have killed her husband." She sat on the corner of his desk. "Now tell me, do the police really think you offed this Nottingham character?"

"Swan thinks the timeline is off."

"Yeah, well Swan's a thinker, but that can't be said of the rest of the police force."

The phone rang. Tilly picked it up. "Weaver and Gaston . . . . Oh yes," she looked at Weaver. "Yes, Miss O'Shaughnessy. He's in." She handed Weaver the phone.

"Yes, Miss O'Shaughnessy," he spoke into the receiver. "I'm so glad you called me. . . . Oh . . . . How's that? . . . Where are you? . . . the Loft Hotel on Lexington. Room 1001. I'll be right over."

Tilly had written down the address and handed it off to him as he stood.

On his way out, he stopped a moment and looked at the front door of the office. "Tilly, have 'Weaver and Gaston' removed and put 'The Weaver Agency' on the door."

"Gotcha Boss," she told him.

 **The Loft Hotel**

Weaver knocked on the door of Room 1001.

"It's Weaver."

The door opened, the inside chain preventing it from opening wide. One of Miss O'Shaughnessy's bright blue eyes peered at him. She shut the door and he heard the sound of the chain being moved. The door opened to let him in.

"Come in, Mr. Weaver," she stepped aside to let him in.

"Good morning," he greeted her following her into the small seating area. He noted several pieces of designer luggage sitting around. She was dressed in a short full, gray skirt and soft pink ruffled blouse. Her hair had been left down and fell in dark curly waves past her shoulders. A morning newspaper was lying on one of the chairs with the two deaths in the headlines.

"I haven't had a chance to unpack," she told him. She sat down in one of the two chairs, nervously looking at her fingers and working them together. He waited quietly.

"Mr. Weaver," she finally began. "I . . . I have a terrible, terrible confession to make."

Weaver gave her a quick smile but didn't say anything.

"That . . . that story I told you yesterday about my sister . . . it was all . . . just a story."

He sat down next to her and spoke kindly. "Oh that . . . well, we didn't actually believe your story, Miss O'Shaughnessy or . . . what? what is your real name?

The woman looked down at her fingers, "It's really . . . uh . . . Avonlea . . . Lacey Avonlea," she told him.

"Well, we didn't exactly believe your story, Miss Avonlea. We believed your three hundred dollars."

"You mean . . ." she began.

"I mean, you paid us more than if you had been telling the truth . . . and enough more to make it all right."

"Mr. Weaver," she was looking directly at him with her bright blue eyes. "About last night . . . I feel awful. I feel I'm to blame for what happened."

Weaver shook his head. "You warned us that Nottingham was dangerous. Of course, you lied to us about your sister and all . . . but that doesn't count because we didn't believe you." He sat back, "No, I wouldn't say it was your fault."

"Thank you," she whispered. "Mr. Gaston was so alive yesterday, so solid and hearty . . ."

"Now stop that," Weaver interrupted roughly. "Gaston knew what he was doing. Those are the chances we take in this job."

"Was he married?"

"Yes, with a five-hundred thousand dollar insurance policy, no children, and wife who didn't like him."

"That sounds awful," she said.

"No time to worry about that now. Although, I am curious what happened to you last night."

Miss Avonlea stood up, obviously uncomfortable with the question. "I was able to point out Nottingham to Mr. Gaston. Keith is . . . was . . . hard to miss. Mr. Gaston told me to go back to my hotel . . . and . . . and I did."

"And did anyone see you, can anyone vouch that you were back in your room?"

Miss Avonlea turned to him. "Do you . . . do you think I killed Mr. Gaston?"

"No, I think that Keith Nottingham killed Gaston. I am wondering if you might have taken the opportunity to kill Nottingham."

"What?! You think I might have killed Keith?" She pulled back from him, obviously alarmed.

"I don't know you, Miss Avonlea. I do know that there is a flock of policemen and probably at least one assistant district attorney running around with their noses to the ground looking for who killed Nottingham."

"Oh god! Do they know about me?" she asked him. She was alarmed, her lips trembled, and her eyes grew wide.

"Not yet. I've been stalling them until I could talk to you."

"Oh please, can't you somehow keep them from finding out about me? I don't want to have to answer their questions." She seemed frantic.

"Maybe, but I want to know what this is really all about," Weaver told her.

"Oh, I can't tell you – I can't tell you. Not yet. Maybe later. Soon. Please, you must trust me, Mr. Weaver. I'm so alone, and I'm so afraid. I've got nobody to help me if you won't help me. Please, you're strong and brave. I need your help so badly. I've no right to ask you, but I do. Please, help me," she begged.

Weaver smiled briefly. "Oh dearie, you won't need much of anybody's help. You're good – really good. I think it's your eyes. They tear up a little. And there's also that little throb you get in your voice."

Miss Avonlea huffed and her eyes, her clear eyes, narrowed. She gave him a quick smile. "All right, I deserved that." She looked at him, examining him, judging him. "But the lie was in the way I said it and not at all in what I said." Her lips were trembling slightly, and she turned away. "It's my own fault if you can't believe me now."

Weaver expression darkened. "Now, you _are_ dangerous." He stood. "I've got nothing against trusting you blindly except that I won't do you much good if I don't have some idea what this is all about. At least, tell me more about Keith Nottingham."

Miss Avonlea nodded and sat down in one of the chairs. Weaver sat down again.

"I met him in Marseille. He promised to help me . . . but then . . . he took advantage of my dependence on him to betray me."

"Betray you? How?"

Miss Avonlea shook her head and said nothing.

"Why did you want him shadowed?" Weaver asked.

"I wanted . . . I needed to learn how far he had gone, whom he was meeting. Things like that.".

"Did he kill Gaston?"

"Probably. Keith had killed before."

"What kind of gun did he carry?"

She thought a moment. "His favorite was an old Ceska, but I also know he kept a small Beretta. He sometimes carried a Luger and, I think, I once saw him with a Glock."

"Whoa. Why all the guns?"

"He lived by them. The story in Marseille was that he'd first come to town as a bodyguard to a drug dealer. Something happened to the drug dealer along the way, but Keith stayed in Marseille. I don't know what he did except that he always had plenty of money. He always went heavily armed and . . . " she hesitated. "He never went to bed without covering the floor with crumbled newspapers so that nobody could come silently into his room."

"Nice playmate you picked."

"I needed someone like him. Only someone like Keith could have helped me – if only he had been loyal." She wrung her hands together.

"Just how big a hole are you in?"

Miss Avonlea took a deep breath and looked him dead in the eye. "As bad as it could be."

"Physical danger?"

"I'm pretty brave, but I don't think there is anything worse than death."

"Then . . . it's that?" Weaver confirmed.

"It's that . . . unless you help me."

Weaver scowled. "So, who killed Nottingham? You, your enemies, or his enemies?"

"I didn't. I . . . I don't know who killed him." She sniffed and thought a moment. "Likely my enemies."

Weaver cleared his throat and stood, frustrated. "This is a hopeless mess! I don't know what you want! Protection? Vengeance?"

"Are you going to go to the police?" Miss Avonlea asked him.

"Go to them? Oh, dearie, all I have to do is stand still and they'll be swarming all over me."

Miss Avonlea stood, and she spoke quietly, "You have tried to help me. You've been patient. I guess you are correct. This _is_ all a hopeless mess. I thank you for what you have done so far. I guess I'll have to take my chances." She seemed resigned to her fate.

Weaver sat back down, obviously thinking, planning. "All right now. How much money do you have?"

Miss Avonlea looked at him, startled, "What? Uh . . . I've got perhaps five hundred left."

"Let me have it," Weaver demanded.

Miss Avonlea hesitated, unsure of him.

"Give it to me," he repeated.

It took her a moment to decide to trust him. She walked into the sleeping area of the hotel room and returned with the money. She handed a stack of small bills over to him.

Weaver counted the money. "There's only four hundred here."

"I have to have something to live on," she protested.

"Can't you get any more?"

"I have no more cash."

"Do you have something you can pawn to raise some more?"

"Well, I have some jewelry and some furs, perhaps . . ."

"Hock them," Weaver told her. "Let me have the rest of your cash."

Miss Avonlea frowned, but then she handed over the remaining hundred.

Weaver counted the money but then, glancing at Lacey, he relented and handed her back a couple of the smaller bills.

"Listen," he said kindly, "I'll be back as soon as I can with the best news I can manage. I'll ring four times, long-short-long-short, so you'll know it's me."

"Thank you," she told him following him as he started for the door. She put her hand on his arm and he stopped. "Mr. Weaver, I . . . I . . ." she stood on her tiptoes and gave him a small kiss on his cheek. "Thank you. I feel safe with you."

When Weaver shut the door behind himself, he realized he could still smell her light perfume. He was also smiling.

 **55 1/2 Heywood Street**

It was late in the afternoon, nearly five o'clock. Tilly was sitting at her desk, her attention half taken by the man who was etching "The Weaver Agency" on the glass window of the door to the offices. Weaver himself stepped by the worker and came into his office.

"Anything happening?" Weaver asked his clever assistant. He'd spent the day talking with all his contacts, police and not-police but hadn't discovered that anyone knew anything about Keith Nottingham.

"I sent flowers to Zelena from you."

"You are an irreplaceable angel," he thanked her. Then, "Can you get Edward Hyde on the phone for me?" He walked on into his office. Shortly his phone buzzed and Tilly informed him that Mr. Hyde was on the line.

"Thanks for taking my call, Ed. I felt I needed advice from an attorney . . . Yeah, I've got another situation . . . . Listen, can I hide behind the sanctity of my client's secrets and privacy and whatnot, like you attorneys do? . . . I know, but Swan's getting contentious and, maybe, well, it's a bit thick this time."

Tilly had come into his office with a pristine white business card in her hand. He took the card and looked at it while holding onto the line, listening to his attorney.

He read, "Madden Jefferson" on the card, then held up his hand to signal Tilly to wait.

"Yeah, Hyde. I understand. Thanks for talking with me." He hung up. There was a strong fragrance drifting off the card. He looked at Tilly, sniffing the card.

"Gardenia," she told him. "You'll want to see him, I'm sure – natty dresser that he is."

"Well then," he said. "In with him, darling."

Tilly went to his door to open it. She addressed the tall man waiting in the outer office. "Mr. Jefferson, please, come in."

Weaver blinked trying to take in the resplendent Mr. Jefferson. His hair had been pomaded and styled. He wore tight fitting pants with high black boots and a black brocade jacket. He had a deep purple cravat tied around his neck and matching purple gloves on his hands. He sported a tall black opera hat.

"Sit down," Weaver gestured to a chair.

"I thank you for seeing me," Mr. Jefferson bowed before taking a seat in one of the dark green leather chairs set in front of Weaver's desk.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Jefferson?"

Mr. Jefferson removed his hat, then his gloves which he dropped into his hat. Weaver could see that the man wore several rings, one with a ruby and the rest with diamonds.

"May a stranger offer you condolences for your partner's unfortunate death?" he spoke smoothly, without any sincerity.

"Thank you," Weaver replied.

"May I ask, Mr. Weaver, if there is, as the newspapers infer, a certain . . . ah . . . relationship between that unfortunate happening and the death a little later of the man Nottingham?"

Weaver stared at Jefferson, not flinching. After an uncomfortable moment, Jefferson smiled and shook his head.

"More than idle curiosity prompted my question, Mr. Weaver. I am trying to recover an . . . ah. . . ornament . . . an ornament that, shall we say, has been . . . uh . . . mislaid. I thought and I hoped that perhaps you could offer me some assistance."

Weaver gave the man a slow nod.

"This ornament . . . it is a small statuette – a black figure of a bird," Jefferson continued.

Weaver nodded again.

"I am prepared to pay," Jefferson explained, "on behalf of the figure's rightful owner, the sum of five thousand dollars." Jefferson sat back. "I am prepared to promise that . . . oh, what is the phrase? . . . that there will be no questions asked as to how you might have put your hands on the statuette."

"Five thousand dollars," Weaver stated thoughtfully. "That's a lot of money."

There was a discreet rap on the door which opened up enough for Tilly to stick her head through. "Is there anything else, Boss?" she asked.

"No, Angel. Lock the door when you go, would you please?" he responded.

"Sure 'nuff," she answered and shut the door again.

Weaver returned his attention to Jefferson. "It's an interesting figure. . . " he began and looked over at Jefferson, who was now standing and pointing a pearl-handled gun at him.

"Please, clasp your hands together at the back of your neck," Jefferson ordered him.

"Sure," Weaver told him and complied.

"I intend to search your office, Mr. Weaver. I warn you that if you attempt to prevent me, I shall certainly shoot you."

"Go ahead," Weaver said.

"You will please stand. I shall have to make sure that you are not armed."

Weaver looked at the younger man for a while, shrugged and shook his head. He stood and allowed Jefferson to approach. When Mr. Jefferson switched the gun from his right hand to his left, Weaver took advantage of the position and popped Jefferson's hand. Jefferson fumbled the gun and Weaver was able to snatch it away. Weaver then swept his arm up and across Mr. Jefferson, knocking him in the head, then catching his jaw with a right jab, pushing the man off balance. Mr. Jefferson fell to the floor, dazed.

Weaver set the gun into his top desk drawer, then crouched down beside Mr. Jefferson, reaching into the man's coat pockets, finding his wallet, a much-used passport, and a large silk handkerchief with a purple paisley design and a sweet, almost sickly, fragrance drifting up from the silk.

Weaver returned to his office seat and went through the wallet. There were about three hundred dollars in the fold, several five-pound notes, and five folded sheets of onion-skin paper covered with what appeared to be Arabic script.

Jefferson groaned and flickered his eyes open.

"Sorry," Weaver said. "Imagine my embarrassment when I found that your five-thousand dollar offer was just hooey."

Jefferson shook his head, "You're mistaken, Mr. Weaver. That was, and is, a genuine offer."

"Really?" Weaver clearly wasn't believing the man.

"Yes. I am prepared to pay five thousand dollars for the return of the figure. Do you have it?"

Weaver shook his head, "No."

Jefferson had pulled himself to his feet. "Then why," he asked, "why did you risk serious injury to stop me from searching your office for it?"

"Because I don't take lightly to people coming into my office and sticking me up," Weaver told him crossly.

Jefferson nodded. "All right then. But you understand that it is natural enough that I should first try to spare the owner such a considerable expense. If I'd been able to find the figure here, I could have just taken it."

Weaver nodded reluctantly. "Who is this mysterious owner?"

Jefferson smiled slowly. "You will have to forgive me. I would think you would understand a client preferring to remain anonymous."

"All right then." Weaver did understand. "Why don't we put all our cards on the table?"

Jefferson regarded him. "I don't think that is necessary. If you know less about this whole affair than I do, I stand to profit."

"I guess. Here's your stuff," he waved his hand at his desk where the wallet, passport, and handkerchief lay. "But without the five thousand dollars, your offer doesn't look very serious."

"Ah . . . you wish some assurance of my sincerity?" Jefferson surmised. "How about a retainer? Would that serve?"

"It might."

Jefferson retrieved his wallet. "You will take, say . . . one hundred dollars?"

"I will take, say . . . two hundred dollars," Weaver told him. "Now, about this . . . uh . . . black bird . . . . Your first guess was that I had it. I don't. So, what's your second guess?"

"That you know where it is . . . or, at least, that you _will_ know where it is."

Weaver hesitated. "You understand that you're not hiring me to do any murder or burglaries. You just want to get this black bird back - if possible, in a legal, honest way."

"If possible. And, in any event, with discretion," Jefferson agreed. He picked up his hat, "I am at the Hotel Belvedere, Room 305 when you wish to communicate with me. I expect the greatest mutual benefit from our association, Mr. Weaver." Jefferson looked around. "Where is my gun?"

"Oh yeah," Weaver reached into the desk drawer he'd tossed the gun. He handed it to Jefferson who promptly pointed the pistol at him.

"Now, you will kindly keep your hands on top of the desk. I intend to search your office," Jefferson told him pointing his pearl-handled gun again at the private detective.

 _NEXT: Miss Avonlea continues to negotiate with Weaver for his help. Weaver assists her in a confrontation with Jefferson._


	3. A Reasonable Amount of Trouble

_Weaver continues to be in the dark as to what is actually going on, but he recognizes that he's involved with people who won't hesitate to murder to attain their goals. Miss O'Shaughnessy has confessed that she has lied to him (and she gives him another name – Lacey Avonlea). She has thrown herself on his mercy, needing his protection and help to survive. Later that day, a fashion-conscious gentleman has arrived at Weaver's office and offered five thousand dollars for a statuette of a black bird. The man has pulled a gun on Weaver so that he can search Weaver's office._

 **The Black Bird**

 **A Reasonable Amount of Trouble**

 **Chapter 3**

"I intend to search your office," Jefferson told him.

Weaver looked at him - a moment of disbelief crossing his face. He laughed shortly, "Well, I should have guessed . . . Hell, go ahead. I won't stop you. You won't find anything."

Weaver stood quietly while the tall young man opened drawers and filing cabinets. He looked behind the curtains, under the cushions of the chairs and even into the wastebasket. After a thorough search, Jefferson sighed.

"Thank you, Mr. Weaver. I shall await a call from you." He pulled on his gloves and put on his top hat. He bowed with a flourish before leaving the office.

Weaver sat back in his desk, reached in the bottom drawer to pull out the bottle of Johnny Walker and a paper cup. He poured it two-thirds full and took a drink. He re-filled the cup and took a second drink. He returned the bottle to the drawer, tossed the cup into the wastebasket, stood and pulled on his hat and overcoat. He turned off the lights and, double-checking, made sure the doors to both the inner and outer offices were locked. He went down the hall and down the stairs to the street.

Weaver stepped out of the building into the dark, cold November night. He hugged his coat around himself and began to walk to his car.

Stepping from the shadows, a small man in a gray coat began to walk after him.

Weaver stopped a moment to look in a store window and the man behind him also stopped. Weaver then crossed the street and walked a ways on. He stopped to look into another store window and again, he noticed the shadow man also had crossed the street. Weaver crossed the street once again and soon enough the shadow man did the same thing. He circled the block before getting to his car. He slipped in and began the drive back to his apartment. He made several left turns, watching lights in the rearview mirror.

Yes, he was being followed.

Weaver pulled his car in front of the Rankin Apartments, got out and walked into the building. He walked hastily through the lobby, waving to the clerk, and out the back door into an alley. Walking quickly, he came out on Patton where he hailed a taxi and drove away. Weaver directed the taxi to take several turns. When he was sure that he had lost the shadow figure, he had the cab take him to the Loft Hotel.

 **Loft Hotel Room 1001**

Weaver rang the bell on the door of Room 1001, one long, one short, one long, one short and quickly, Miss Avonlea pulled the door open.

"Oh, thank goodness. Come in, Mr. Weaver." She looked behind him, checking the hallway, then stepped aside so that he could enter. She shut the door behind him and locked it.

Weaver followed her into the luxurious suite. She took his coat and hat and hung them up. "Do you have any news?" She bit her lip anxiously. "I mean, did you manage it so that the police won't have to know about me?"

Weaver gave her a brief smile as he went and stood by the warm fireplace that graced the high-end suite. "Not for a while, anyway."

Her shoulders sagged in relief and she sat down on the plush settee. She smiled at him but then another thought crossed her mind.

"You won't get into trouble, will you?"

Weaver shook his head, "Oh, I don't mind a reasonable amount of trouble."

"Oh good. Please . . . sit down."

Weaver didn't sit. He watched her, his eyes steady and clear, weighing her. Under his scrutiny, Miss Avonlea became nervous, flushing with shyness. She couldn't keep eye contact with him.

"You aren't exactly the sort of person you pretend to be, are you?" he questioned her, still standing by the fireplace.

Miss Avonlea flinched. "I . . . I'm . . . I'm not sure what you mean."

"The schoolgirl manner, stammering, blushing, all that," he explained.

Miss Avonlea closed her eyes for a moment, and then she began softly. "I haven't lived a good life. I've made bad decisions. I've . . . I've been bad . . . worse than you could imagine," she admitted.

"Oh, I can imagine a great deal, but, well, this is good. Because if you actually were as innocent as you pretend to be, we'd never get anywhere."

"I'm hardly innocent," she confirmed.

"Good." He smiled at her and sat down. "I saw Madden Jefferson earlier this evening."

Miss Avonlea's eyes reflected her emotions – she was startled, frightened, cautious. "You . . . you . . . you know him?"

"Slightly," he told her.

Miss Avonlea rose from the settee and went over to the fireplace to adjust the flames of the gas logs. She shifted the candlestick on the mantlepiece, moving the object over a few inches. She then crossed the room to get a box of cigarettes from a table in the corner. She straightened the curtain of the window and then returned to the settee, taking a seat.

Weaver had to smile. "You are good. You're very good."

"What . . . what did he have to say?" she asked as if it wasn't really important.

"About what?" he asked. _He was wanting some answers, at least, some clarification._

"About me?"

"Not a thing," he told her.

"Really?" She considered lighting her cigarette but changed her mind. "Well then, what did you two talk about?"

"He offered me five thousand dollars for the black bird."

Miss Avonlea was clearly alarmed. She stood.

"Now, you're not going to go around messing with the fireplace and straightening the room again, are you?" He was laughing at her.

To her credit, she relaxed and laughed with him. She dropped the cigarette into the trash can and looked at him with clear eyes. "All right. No, I won't. But . . . what did you say . . . to his offer?"

"Five thousand dollars is a lot of money."

Her expression changed to one of sadness, sitting back down beside him. "It is. It is far more than I could ever offer you if I have to bid for your loyalty."

"That's pretty good, coming from you. What have you given me besides money? Have you been honest with me, told me anything about what all this is really about?"

"I've given you all the money I have," she told him, and he could see that there were tears in her eyes. "I've told you as much as I can. I've thrown myself on your mercy. Without your help, I'm utterly lost. What else is there that I can buy you with?"

Her eyes were large and bright. Her lips moist and a deep rose color that didn't come from lipstick. Weaver gently reached for her. She melted into him. And he found himself kissing her. She was sweet and warm and she allowed him to take liberties with his lips and his hands.

Somehow, he found the strength to pull away. _This was a client, he reminded himself - and a particularly untrustworthy one at that._ "I don't care what your secrets are – but I can't go on without more confidence in you than I have now. You've got to convince me that you know what you're doing – that you aren't simply fiddling around hoping things will come out all right in the end."

She nodded. "I understand. Of course, I understand. Can you . . . can you trust me - just a little longer?"

"How long is a little longer? What are you waiting for?"

She didn't answer him, looking away. "I should talk with Jefferson."

"I know how to get in touch with him," Weaver told her.

"But not here. I can't let him know where I'm living," she insisted.

"My place then?"

Miss Avonlea hesitated. "All right then. Is it too late to meet with him tonight?"

"Oh, I had the impression that Jefferson would be willing to meet if we suggested going starkers in a public fountain in the middle of a blizzard. I'll call him and set it up." Weaver picked up the phone and dialed the Belvedere.

 **Weaver's Apartment**

They took a cab back to Weaver's small apartment. Sitting outside the place was a black late model car. Weaver escorted Belle into his building's vestibule.

"Wait here, please," he instructed her, and then he walked over to the black car.

He rapped on the window, "Zelena? What's the matter? Has anything happened? You shouldn't be out alone this time of night."

"You told me not to come to your office. And now you're telling me that I shouldn't come here." She was upset and petulant.

"Zelena . . . " he began.

"Who is she, Weaver? That little brunette you escorted into your building."

"She's a client, Zelena." He just sounded tired.

"Can I just come in for a little while and talk with you?" she pleaded with him.

"I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Is it over between us?" she asked him.

"There was never anything between us," he tried to explain. "There's nothing to be over."

"You're saying you never loved me?"

"Zelena, go home. Get some sleep. See a doctor," he told her and turned back to his apartment. She waited until he got to the entrance of the building before starting up her car and screeching out into the street.

Miss Avonlea was waiting for him in the lobby. "Are you in the habit of just throwing women away?" she asked him.

He shook his head and pressed the button for the elevator to open . "Whatever there was between that woman and myself is all in her head."

"I'm not getting in the way of anything?"

The elevator door opened, and he motioned her in first. "Lord, no, you're not getting in the way," he assured her.

As they stood outside his apartment door, Miss Avonlea whispered, "You know, I never would have placed myself in this position if I didn't trust you completely." She placed her hand on his chest and looked up at him, her eyes wide and her lips trembling.

He sighed and shook his head even as he unlocked the door, "You can't help yourself, can you?" _He wanted to trust her, but he felt that she still wasn't being truthful with him, certainly not forthcoming. She was definitely holding information back._

The door opened, and she broke away from him and stepped inside. "But you know it's true – I do trust you, I trust you completely."

Weaver turned on the lights. "As long as you can get me to trust you – you don't have to trust me."

She took a deep breath. "All right then."

"Jefferson should be here any time now. Take care of your business with him and . . . then, we can see where we stand," he told her.

"You'll let me go about it . . . with him . . . in my own way?" she asked.

"Sure. I'm still pretty much in the dark here anyway," he agreed.

Miss Avonlea took his hand. "You're a godsend," she told him softly.

"Don't overdo it," he warned her.

She dropped his hand. Weaver smiled, shaking his head. He went over to his window and looked down at the street. The black car was gone but there leaning in the shadows across the street was a familiar grey-shrouded figure.

There was a discreet knock at the door.

Weaver opened it and gestured for Jefferson to come in.

"There's a man in a grey raincoat standing across the street watching your apartment," Jefferson told him.

"Yeah, I know. I spotted him earlier."

Miss Avonlea was instantly next to Weaver. "What? Someone's watching?"

"Yeah. A little weaselly guy. He started tailing me earlier," Weaver clarified.

Miss Avonlea's eyes widened in fright. "Did he follow you to my apartment?"

"No, I shook him off before that," Weaver assured her. "I guess after losing me, he decided to return to my apartment, figuring this is where I was likely to show back up."

Miss Avonlea still seemed a bit agitated knowing that Weaver had a shadow.

Mr. Jefferson spoke up addressing Miss Avonlea. "I must say, I'm delighted to see you again . . . Miss . . . what name are you using with Mr. Weaver here?"

"Avonlea," she told him sharply.

"Of course," Jefferson smiled and offered his hand. She took it.

"Delighted to see you, too, Jefferson," she told him.

Weaver gestured for the two to sit down in his small living room area. They each took a chair.

Miss Avonlea began, "Mr. Weaver told me about your offer for the Falcon. How soon can you have the money ready?"

"Immediately."

"Cash?" she asked.

Jefferson nodded. "But of course."

"You are ready to give us five thousand dollars if we turn the Falcon over to you?" she pressed him.

"Well, I perhaps expressed myself badly. I don't have the five thousand in my pockets. But I am prepared to get it on a few minutes notice at any time during banking hours," he clarified.

"Really?"

"He's probably telling the truth," Weaver backed him up. "When I went through his coat and wallet this afternoon, he had only a couple of hundred."

Jefferson nodded. "I shall be able to give you the money at . . . shall we say half-past ten tomorrow morning?"

Miss Avonlea hesitated. "I haven't got the Falcon," she confessed.

"What? Why are we here then?"

"I'll have it in another week - at the most," she explained quickly.

"Where is it?" Jefferson demanded.

"Where Keith put it," she told him.

"Keith? Keith Nottingham?"

Miss Avonlea nodded.

"And you know where he put it?" Jefferson pursued the issue.

"I do."

"Then why do we have to wait a week?"

"Well," Miss Avonlea hedged. "Perhaps not an entire week."

Jefferson realized she wasn't going to be any more forthcoming. "I'll ask you another question. Why are you willing to sell it to me?"

"Because I'm afraid of the damn thing," she answered. "After what happened to Keith, I'm afraid to touch it, except to turn it over to somebody else right away."

"Exactly what did happen to Keith?" he asked her. Weaver was interested in this also and leaned in to hear her explanation.

"The Pirate," she whispered.

Jefferson sat back. "Hook is here?"

"I haven't seen him, but it has to be him. I'm sure it's him. What difference does it make?" She stood, nervously pacing.

"What difference? It makes a world of difference." Jefferson glanced at Weaver.

Miss Avonlea caught the glance. "Yes, to me, and you."

"And the man outside . . ." Jefferson finished.

"Oh, but you could get around that one, Jefferson. Just like you did with that one in the Greek Isles – what was his name?"

Jefferson sighed. "You mean the one you couldn't get to . . . ."

She interrupted him, "Only because he preferred you over me."

"Perhaps," Jefferson agreed. "But there was also that one in Istanbul and wasn't there the fellow in London and how many in Marseille before you connected with Keith?"

"Oh, shut up, you pissy little queen," Miss Avonlea told him.

Jefferson bolted up, "I don't have to tolerant being addressed so disrespectfully." He turned to go to the door, but Weaver caught him and pushed him back down onto the settee.

"Let's make sure we have worked out this deal before you head out," Weaver told him.

"This is the second time you have put your hands on me," Jefferson protested, speaking through his teeth.

"So, file assault charges," Weaver told him.

At that moment, the doorbell to the apartment rang.

The three froze.

"Who is it?" Miss Avonlea whispered.

The doorbell rang again, someone was hitting it repeatedly.

Weaver shrugged, "Why don't we find out? You two - step into the bedroom," he motioned them towards the back room. "And keep quiet."

Weaver opened the door to Detective Swan. He greeted her, "Well, hello. You sure pick some odd hours to do your visiting."

"I want to talk with you, Weaver," Swan told him.

Weaver did not move from the doorway. "So, go ahead. Talk."

"Do I have to do it out here in the hallway?"

Weaver smiled, "Yeah. Not feeling disposed towards inviting you in this evening."

Swan sighed. "Listen, I know something is going on. You're involved in something, something serious, and you're up to your neck. You've gotten away with for a while, but you can't keep it up forever."

"If you had anything on me for real, you'd be taking me downtown. You're fishing," Weaver told her.

"All right then. There's talk going around about you and Gaston's wife. Anything to it?"

"Not a thing."

Swan continued, "The talk is that she tried to get a divorce out of him, so she could put in with you. But Gary wouldn't give it to her. Is that true?"

"No."

"There's even talk that this was why Gary was out on that job."

Weaver scowled. "Your first idea was that I killed off Nottingham because he killed Gary. Now I killed off Gary, too?"

"You haven't heard me say you killed anybody. You're the one who keeps bringing that up."

"So, why are you here? Looking for trouble?"

"Looking for answers," Swan told him. "Weaver, I've talked with Zelena. She insists that you and she were an item."

"And I'm telling you, anything between Zelena and me was all in Zelena's head."

Swan grimaced. "You see where I am in all this?"

The detective might have been about to say more when someone screamed from inside the apartment.

"Help! Police! Help!" Weaver recognized Jefferson's voice.

Swan looked at Weaver, "I guess I'm coming in."

"I guess you are," Weaver agreed and stepped aside.

Jefferson burst out of the back room. He was holding his pearl-handled pistol with one hand and holding his other hand on his cheek. Blood was seeping through the fingers of the hand on his forehead. Miss Avonlea followed him out, her eyes wide with anger . . . _or fright_.

"What is going on here?" Swan demanded.

"Look at me!" Jefferson removed his hand from his forehead. "She did this to me."

"I had to," Miss Avonlea began. "I was all alone with him. He attacked me. I . . . I had to keep him off, get away from him."

"You little liar!" Jefferson screamed at her. "I came here in good faith and both of them have attacked me." He appealed to the police officer. "She told me that after you left, they were going to kill me, so I called out for help. And then she hit me and scratched me."

"I was protecting myself!" Miss Avonlea insisted.

Swan watched impassively. She looked over at Weaver and sighed. "I should take all three of you down to the station."

"That won't be necessary," Weaver spoke up.

"Then go ahead. Explain," Swan told him.

"This is Lacey Avonlea," he began the introductions. "She is an operative in my employ."

"That's not true!" Jefferson interrupted.

"And this is Madden Jefferson, an old acquaintance of Miss Avonlea. He came by my office this afternoon to hire me to find something that Nottingham was supposed to have had on him when he was bumped off. The whole deal sounded peculiar to me, so I wouldn't touch it. Jefferson pulled a gun on me . . . but never mind that. We could end up filing charges against each other but that wouldn't get us anywhere. Anyway, I talked over his proposition with Miss Avonlea here, and she thought that maybe he knew something about Gary's and Nottingham's killings, so I asked him up here. We were chatting when you came by."

Swan looked at Jefferson. "He telling the truth?"

"Pretty much," Jefferson agreed uncomfortably. "Except I don't know anything about the killings. I was just asking about something Nottingham was supposed to have had on him."

"You want to swear out a complaint against either one of these two?" Swan asked Jefferson.

Jefferson appeared nervous, shifting from one foot to the other. "No," he finally said.

"How about you, Weaver? You making a complaint against Mr. Jefferson here – for pulling a gun on you earlier?"

"No need to. We were just getting to know each other – the lay of the land, if you will," Weaver answered quickly.

"You know, it might help things along if I knew what it was Nottingham was supposed to have," Swan asked the trio.

"Stolen jewels," Miss Avonlea spoke up, surprising the two men. "He'd been accused of stealing them from the Countess Cora de'Serca."

"Countess de'Serca?" Swan repeated.

"I used to work for her. She's a chorus girl who married into old Russian aristocracy. Her husband's family fled before the Bolsheviks took over. They managed to retain most of their wealth and their titles," Miss Avonlea rapidly shared.

"So, what was your business with Mr. Nottingham?" Swan questioned her.

"I was tailing him. I'm an insurance agent hoping to get the reward for recovering the jewels," Miss Avonlea smoothly explained.

"And did you recover the jewels?"

"No, apparently Mr. Nottingham stowed them somewhere, so he could pick them up later."

Swan turned to Jefferson. "And I suppose you're freelancing for an insurance company also?"

Jefferson hesitated, "Yeah, sure. We'll say that."

Weaver sat down. "So, you can see that neither one of these would have any call to kill Nottingham before they could recover the jewels."

"Or maybe one of them had recovered the jewels and they wanted to stop Nottingham from taking them back," Swan suggested.

"If either one of us had the jewels, we surely wouldn't be hanging around here," Miss Avonlea told her.

Swan considered this. "All right then. I'll still be keeping my eye on all of you. I'm satisfied that Nottingham took out Gary, but I'm still looking for whoever took out Nottingham." She stepped back to the door.

"Are you leaving?" Jefferson asked her. "If so, I would appreciate it if you would give me an escort back to my hotel."

Swan smiled, "Sure, why not. Come on. We'll stop and get coffee and you can tell me more about these jewels."

Weaver waited until he was sure Swan and Jefferson had gone down the stairs. He turned back to Miss Avonlea.

"We aren't really doing all this for some jewels, are we?" he asked her.

"Jewels, oh no," she scoffed. "That was just the first thing that popped into my head."

"And you're not an insurance agent either," he pronounced.

"Not exactly." She licked her lips. "But I did use to work for the Countess. I knew where she kept things. Oh my, look at the time." It was nearly one o'clock in the morning. "I guess I should be going."

Weaver shook his head. "Not until you tell me more."

"What?" She suddenly seemed soft and amenable. "Am I . . . your . . . prisoner?"

"Let's call it protective custody. Maybe the gray shadow man is still out there watching," Weaver reminded her.

Now, Miss Avonlea looked worried. "Do you think he might still be out there?"

"Likely," Weaver told her. "And he would certainly follow you back to your hotel."

Miss Avonlea wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

"Now, you can start any time," Weaver nudged her. "Tell me about the bird?"

 _NEXT: Miss Avonlea tells him one version of the Black Bird's history. Things heat up between Weaver and Miss Avonlea._


	4. Plain Speaking and Clear Understanding

_Weaver finds himself increasingly drawn to the duplicitous Miss Avonlea. He learns that she and Jefferson have a shared history, and both are concerned about the possible arrival of a third party, a man known as The Pirate. After a confrontation between Miss Avonlea and Jefferson, Jefferson leaves with Detective Swan who has shown up (after being contacted by Zelena who has told Swan that Weaver killed Gary). Weaver presses Miss Avonlea for more information about the black bird._

 **The Black Bird**

 **Chapter 4**

 **Plain Speaking and Clear Understanding**

"Tell me about the bird."

"Oh, you are most persistent," she told him.

"Yeah, I suppose so. Tell me."

Miss Avonlea looked at him, debating what to do. She made up her mind. "All right then, but once I tell you, I can't un-tell you, you understand?"

She took a deep breath and began. "It's a small statue about a foot high, black, smooth, shiny, maybe porcelain or some type of black stone. I only ever saw it once, and then I had it in hand and I was running with it."

"What makes it so important?"

"I don't know. Honestly, I don't know. I was approached by Jefferson and he promised me two hundred pounds if I helped him get it away from the Countess. That was in Greece – one of the private islands. I took the bird and made my way to Marseilles."

"Go on."

"Keith had also been hired by Jefferson. His job was to help get us out of Marseilles. I overheard Jefferson on the phone. He was talking with someone and promising them that as soon as he could, he would take the bird and leave Keith and myself with nothing . . . well, nothing except the Countess's private army coming at us. I told Keith and we took the bird and skipped out on Jefferson, going to London."

"And at some point, you and Nottingham had a falling out," Weaver guessed.

"Not exactly, but in London, I began to suspect that Keith was planning on taking the bird and leaving me with nothing."

"So, you played along with him while it was convenient. Was it your idea or his to come to the states?"

". . . uh . . . It was his. He said he wanted to put some distance between us and all the people who were after us."

"So, you were together . . . up until . . . how did you two get separated once you hit town?"

"Ummm . . . we . . . we both thought it was better if we separated so we'd be two targets instead of one," she stammered.

Weaver shook his head. "You're a liar."

Miss Avonlea bit her lip and nodded. "I am. I've always been a liar."

"Don't brag about it. Was there any truth at all in that story?"

She shrugged and whispered her answer. "Some . . . not a lot."

"We've got the rest of the night. I'll put on some coffee and we'll start again."

She stopped him coming over to him. "Oh please, I'm so tired." Tears welled up in her eyes. "I'm tired of lying, of thinking up lies, of not knowing what is a lie, and what is the truth." She slid her arms around him, leaning into him. He felt her lips on his chest through his shirt.

"Are you trying to distract me?" he asked. "Because . . . because it's working."

She gave him a weak smile. "I was worried that I might be losing my touch. I usually don't have to work this hard to seduce a man." She was tugging on his jacket, pulling it off his shoulders and down his arms.

He allowed her to take the lead, letting her remove his jacket and unbutton his shirt.

He knew that sleeping with a client, any client was a bad idea and sleeping with this particular client was a disastrously bad idea, but . . . he couldn't stop himself. He knew she was using sex, her body, to keep him on her side.

And it was working.

He didn't bother to guide her back to the bedroom, just pulled her down to the carpeted floor right there in the living room. He reached down, pulling on her skirt, pulling it up, so that he could run his hand along her thigh. He hand encountered a stiletto strapped to her thigh which he set aside. She was wearing stockings held up by a garter belt. He slipped his hand between her legs, finding her wet and ready. He pulled down her panties and she lifted her body, so she could slip them off. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and found the single foil packet he kept there. He dropped the wallet on the floor.

"Now, please, now." She was pleading with him.

She pushed him so that she could be on top, straddling him, but he quickly pulled her down and over so that he was on top, clamping his hands on her wrists, holding her down and still. He kissed her harshly, his teeth nearly cutting into her.

"Oh yes," she pleaded with him again.

He had to release her to rip the foil packet open and contain himself before he could push into her. She moaned and wrapped her legs around him.

He thought he might black out before he could finish. She was thrashing and arching into him. Her gasps were urging him on. And quickly, almost too quickly, he felt her still and shiver and then cry out. There was no mistaking the pulsing he felt along his shaft and he couldn't hold himself back any longer.

He collapsed onto her, just remembering enough to roll to one side. They both lay there on his carpet, panting. She brought her hand up to caress his shoulder, a soft, gentle gesture.

"That went too fast," he muttered. "We need to go into the bedroom. We'll freeze out here on the floor. And I've got to go into the bathroom a moment." Somehow he was able to get himself up off the floor and over to the toilet to drop the condom. He returned and pulled her up, leading her into his bedroom and helping her shed the remainder of her clothing. She was warm and soft and went into his bed willingly. He lay down next to her, curling up against her, pulling up the covers over both of them.

"That was wonderful," she murmured as she snuggled against him.

He wrapped an arm around her. "Then why are you crying?" He had noticed tears streaking down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He was puzzled. "Why?"

She didn't answer right away.

"Why? Did you not mean for this to happen?"

"Oh, please, this was wonderful," she assured him. "I'm glad it happened . . . but . . . "

"Then what's wrong?"

"I like you, really like you. And now I'm worried, really worried."

He placed a kiss on her forehead but didn't say anything.

"I told you that I've made some bad decisions and now I'm worried that, because of some things I've done, well, I'm worried that you could be in some danger."

"I can take care of myself," he assured her.

"Oh, I know that, but still . . . I wouldn't want anything to happen to you because of me."

"I'll be careful," he promised.

Neither one of them said anything for a moment.

Finally, Miss Avonlea spoke, "I really do like you."

 **The Next Morning.**

The next morning, he allowed her to climb on top. He'd pulled a second condom out, fishing one out of the drawer of the nightstand. She clamored on top of him, using her hand to stimulate him, all the while kissing his neck, his face, his lips. He was ready almost immediately, having awoken with aching balls from having her wiggle and snuggle against him all night.

He decided he liked her on top. Once she'd lowered herself down on to him, she ended up doing most of the work while he was free to amuse himself by cupping her plump little breasts, stroking along her waist and thighs, even reaching between them to stimulate her feminine nub.

"Come for me, Lacey," he ordered, and he again felt her still and heard her cry out even as her body contracted around him. She dropped down and he held her tightly while he reversed their positions, sitting up and, taking her with him, pushing her onto her back. She cried out again as he began to pummel her, riding her hard, stroking, pushing in and pulling out. She gave another sharp cry and he knew she was coming for him again. And he let himself go.

 **The Belvedere**

It was around ten o'clock when Weaver went in the front door of the Belvedere. Miss Avonlea had seen to it that he'd gotten a late start and he'd gone from a euphoric mood to a sour one in the time it took him to cross the hotel's threshold and spot the little gray man in the lobby – apparently shadowing Jefferson now. The gray man was sitting in a dark corner reading a newspaper. Weaver went and sat down by the man.

"Where is The Pirate?" Weaver asked the man.

The other man slowly lowered the paper, his dark eyes contrasting with his pale skin. "Fuck off."

Weaver sat back. "You'll have to talk to me before you're through. And you can tell The Pirate I said so.

The man put down the paper. "I told you to fuck off."

"Yeah, well, just remember to deliver the message." Weaver got up and went up the elevator to the third floor, room 305. He rapped on the door and a disheveled Jefferson opened the door.

"Good morning," he greeted the tall young man.

"If you say so," Jefferson replied disgruntled.

"Let's go somewhere and we'll talk. I'll buy you breakfast."

"I'm not sure I want to go anywhere with you. Our conversations have not been such that I'm anxious to continue them." Jefferson waved him off.

"You mean all that nonsense from last night? Hey, what else could I do? I had to stay on Miss Avonlea's side. I don't know where the bird is. You don't know where it is. She does. How else are we going to get it if I don't play along with her?"

Jefferson sniffed. "You always have a smooth explanation ready."

"What do you want me to do? Learn to stutter?"

"I'll pass on the meal and the talk," Jefferson told him. He made a motion to shut the door in Weaver's face.

"Did you have a nice chat with Detective Swan?" Weaver asked before the door closed.

"Actually, that part went rather well. She seems to be pretty smart. I'm not sure she bought the whole jewel thief, insurance agent story. She still thinks one of us offed Nottingham."

"Yeah, she is a smart girl," Weaver agreed right before the door was shut in his face.

 **The Office**

Tilly was on the phone when he returned to his office. She pointed to the receiver and mouthed "Zelena" as he walked by.

"No, no. He's not in yet. He's out working a case. I don't know if he'll be back today. . . Sure, sure. I'll have him call you if he comes in." She hung up the phone.

She turned to Weaver. "That's the third time she's called looking for you."

"Thanks. I appreciate you running interference."

"Just show your appreciation in my next pay check, Boss," Tilly told him. "Oh, Miss Avonlea is waiting in your office."

"Anything else?

"Yeah," Tilly picked up a short stack of notes. "The Assistant District Attorney's office called. Nolen wants to talk to you."

"Been expecting that," Weaver told her.

"And a Mr. Jones called. When I said you weren't in, he said, 'Would you please tell him that the man gave me your message and that I phoned, and I will phone again.'"

"Jones, huh? Thanks." Weaver had been expecting to hear this news, but he was surprised that it had come so quickly. He went on into his office where he was met by Miss Avonlea. She'd been sitting in one of his leather chairs and vaulted up when he came in.

"Someone's been in my apartment! When I went back to change this morning, I found the place turned upside down – every which way! I changed as fast as I could, grabbed a few things and came here. You must have let Hook's creature follow you."

Weaver shook his head. "No, my dear. I know I shook him long before I went to your place. I don't know. Possibly Jefferson might have followed you. He didn't look very rested when I came by to see him this morning."

Miss Avonlea pulled back. "You went to see Jefferson this morning?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Weaver smiled at her, "Because my dear, I've got to keep in some sort of touch with all the loose ends of this dizzy affair if I'm ever going to make heads or tails of it." He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her in, kissing her forehead, then the tip of her nose before letting her go.

"So," he began. "I guess we need to find you a new place to live."

"Well, I can't go back to that hotel," she insisted.

"Wait a minute." He stepped out of his office. "Tilly," he began, lowering his voice. "What do you think about Miss Avonlea?"

"She's a chronic liar, uses men, probably uses sex to get her way, but . . . she's also brave and strong and . . . all right, I guess."

"I need a favor, a big one. Your mother's not around, is she?"

"Not at the moment, but you know how she is – she can show up at the drop of a hat."

"Yeah," he agreed. "How would you feel about gaining a roommate?"

"Avonlea?"

"Yeah. Can you put her up in your place for a few days?"

Tilly hesitated. "Is she in danger, Weaver?"

"I think she is."

"Well, you know where I live. You think she can manage in a warehouse apartment?"

"I do. I think she could manage about anywhere."

"Then sure. She can stay with me."

"You're an angel."

"Expect to see it in the paycheck," Tilly reminded him.

Weaver returned to Miss Avonlea. "My Tilly is willing to put you up for a few days. She's a bit of a bohemian nightmare, but you should be safe with her."

Miss Avonlea got up and leaned out the door to address Tilly, "Oh thank you, thank you. This is so very kind of you."

"Go ahead and take her there now," Weaver suggested. "Go out the back and make sure you're not followed."

"Shouldn't be a problem, Boss," Tilly told him.

Weaver returned to his office and called the District Attorney.

"Yeah, this is Detective Weaver. Nolen had called me. He wanted to see me. . . . Right, ask him what time is most convenient for him? . . . Right . . . That's Weaver . . . W-e-a-v-e-r."

He waited on the phone. He heard a noise in the outer office even while he waited.

"Yes . . . two-thirty . . . all right . . . that works for me. I'll be there. Thanks." He hung up the telephone and cautiously checked the outer office.

"Zelena," he greeted the woman standing in the outer office. She was wearing black. She held a wadded-up tissue in her hand and used it to dab at her red, swollen eyes.

"Oh, Weaver, darling. Forgive me. Forgive me," she blurted out.

He waited.

"I sent Detective Swan to your place last night. I was mad – crazy with jealousy and I phoned her that if she'd go there, she'd learn something about Gary's murder."

"Why'd you do that?"

"I was mad at you . . . I wanted to hurt you."

"Did you tell Swan who you were when you talked with her?"

"No . . . I was just mad. I felt betrayed," she confessed.

"Where did you call from?"

"The diner across from your place."

Weaver just seemed tired and a little sad. "It wasn't your finest moment, dearie, but it's done now. You'd better run on home and be thinking of things to tell the police. They're going to want to know where you were the night Gary was shot."

Zelena immediately spoke up, "I was at home."

Weaver shook his head and smiled at her.

"I was." She insisted.

"Hey, if that's your story, it's all right with me."

"I'm not lying." She took several deep breaths. "When Gary came home for dinner that evening, he told me that he had a date with a girl and this was my chance to get the divorce I wanted. At first, I thought he was just making it up to try and hurt me. But . . . well, you knew Gary . . . it would have been like him . . . ."

"I knew Gary," Weaver agreed.

"I followed him down to the Grand Bohemian and waited until I saw him come out. I followed him. He was shadowing a man and a woman – so I went back and got in the car – and . . . I went up to your apartment, but you weren't home."

"What time was that?"

"About half-past nine. The first time," Zelena explained.

"The first time?" Weaver asked.

"I was upset. I drove around a bit, went to a movie and then went home. Gary hadn't come in by three, so I took the car out of the garage again and went back to your place, but you still weren't in."

"I'd been called out by Swan to identify Gary's body," Weaver told her.

"Then I went back home and while I was undressing, Tilly came by with the news of Gary's death."

"That was a pretty active evening," Weaver noted.

"Can you forgive me for what I did? For what I told the police?"

"Sure, I do. Now you need to run back home."

Weaver watched the tall red-head closely, half expecting her to insist on staying. But she sniffed and turned around to leave.

The telephone in his office rang.

Weaver answered it.

" Weaver Agency . . . Yeah, this is Weaver . . . Yes, I got your message. I've been expecting to hear from you. . . Well, I'd say, the sooner, the better . . . Fifteen minutes? . . . Yes, I could do that. . . Right - the Alexander Hotel, Room 8-C." Weaver hung up the phone, checked his watch and left his offices, locking the door behind himself.

The Alexander Hotel had been an upscale facility when it had been established - seventy-five years ago. The building was now showing its age. There were still touches of elegance – mahogany doors, gilded baseboards, but the hallway rugs were threadbare and the light bulbs forty-watt specials rather than bright hundred-watt bulbs. Weaver had gone up to the eighth floor and knocked on room 8-C.

The door was opened by the little gray man who had been following him, the same one he'd confronted in the lobby of Jefferson's hotel. The little man scowled at him, but Weaver ignored him.

Sitting in the living area of the suite was a tall man. He had likely once been devilishly attractive, but long ago had begun a slow descent and had since paid the price for dissipated life choices. At the present he carried a paunch and sported a diamond stud in one ear lobe. He was dressed well, in tailored pants, a freshly laundered white shirt, and a jaunty scarf around his neck.

"Ah, Mr. Weaver," the man greeted him, holding out his right arm which ended in a hook.

"Mr. Jones, I assume. How do you do." Weaver took the extended hook and shook it.

"Please, come, sit down," Jones smoothly motioned to one of the plush chairs. "I believe you have met my man, Heller."

"On several occasions," Weaver told him and took a seat. Jones then offered him a drink of whiskey.

"Sure," Weaver was agreeable.

"Very good. We begin well. I distrust a man that won't take a drink. If he's got to be careful not to drink too much, it's because he's not to be trusted when he does."

Weaver accepted the glass and took a sip. "Nice."

"Ah, a man who knows whiskey. Very good." Jones raised his glass, "Here's to plain-speaking and clear understanding." Weaver raised his own glass to Jones's approval. "Now, Mr. Weaver, would you say you're a close-mouthed man?"

Weaver shook his head, "No sir. I like to talk."

Jones smiled broadly at him. "Better and better. I distrust a close-mouthed man. He generally picks the wrong time to talk and says the wrong things. Talking's something you can't do judiciously unless you keep in practice."

Jones then offered Weaver a cigar, which he took, trimming the end and lighting it with the lighter sitting on the table.

Jones had taken a cigar for himself. "Would you mind terribly, sir?" he'd asked, holding it for Weaver to trim the end. "Trimming the end is rather difficult to do with one hand." Weaver complied and handed it back. He picked up the lighter and lit the cigar for his host. Both men sat back enjoying the first few puffs.

"Now sir," Jones began. "We'll talk if you like and I'll tell you right out that I'm a man that likes talking to a man that likes to talk."

"Fine," Weaver told him. "Will we talk about the Black Bird?"

Jones laughed, "You are the man for me, sir. No beating about the bush, but right to the point. By all means, let's talk about the Black Bird. But first, sir, answer a question. Are you here as Miss . . . oh, what name is she using now?"

"Avonlea," Weaver supplied.

"Really, back to Marseilles, is she? Well then, are you here as Miss Avonlea's representative?"

Weaver considered. "There is nothing certain about it either way yet . . . it depends . . ."

"It depends on . . .?"

Weaver blew out a stream of smoke. He didn't respond to the question.

"Maybe it depends on Jefferson?" Jones asked him.

"Maybe," Weaver replied noncommittally.

"The question is, then, which one of these two will you represent? It has to be one or the other," Jones persisted.

"I wouldn't say so," Weaver told him.

"Who else is there?"

"Well . . . there's me," Weaver answered.

 _NEXT: Miss Avonlea learns a bit of Weaver's history from Tilly, and at last, Weaver learns the history of The Black Bird._

 _Sorry for the week's delay in posting – I had surgery (partial knee) and was way too high on oxycodone (not my new favorite drug) to allow me to manage anything more than an on-off switch. Hope to be back on my usual schedule from here out. -twyla_


	5. A Fair Bargain

_Although they have forged a relationship (of sorts), Weaver continues to be wary of Miss Avonlea. He recognizes that she is deeply enmeshed in some sort of international intrigue, likely criminal. She is frightened that her enemies are closing in upon her and Weaver makes arrangements for her to stay with Tilly. Meanwhile, Weaver makes contact with the elusive, mysterious Pirate._

 **The Black Bird**

 **Chapter 5**

 **A Fair Bargain**

"Have you known him long?" Miss Avonlea and Tilly were riding in Tilly's old Hudson.

"Pretty much, all my life. I was like five when I met him."

"Really?"

"Yeah, he was . . . he used to be a policeman," Tilly shared.

"I didn't know that."

"I lived on his beat with my mother. She . . . well, my mother had . . . has . . . some problems. She'd always told me the police were just out to get you and you should hide from them because if they see you, they'll come and get you and take you away."

"Sounds a bit like what my father told me," Miss Avonlea noted.

"Then you know it's tough. Weaver would walk his beat and any time he saw me, he'd wave and, after a while, I started waving back. He didn't seem so scary to me." Tilly was watching her mirror and the traffic behind them, taking several turns to make sure they weren't being followed. "When I started going to school, he saw me out walking in the cold and I guess he noticed that I didn't have a coat. He met me one morning and gave me a coat – it was from the Goodwill, but it was nice and . . . it was a coat."

"What did your mother say?"

"I don't know that she ever noticed. She was gone a lot with boyfriends and such and she probably thought she'd gotten it for me. Weaver and I kept up our waving acquaintance for a couple of years." Tilly turned down a back alley and slowed the car. "Then when I was nine, my mother went out and a couple of weeks went by and she didn't return. I literally ran out of food and it was summer, so school was out, and I had nothing to eat. I saw Weaver and told him what was happening. He went into the house and looked around and asked me if I would come with him. I said, 'sure.' And he took me out to a diner and told me to order whatever I wanted. Then he made some calls from the diner. He told me my mother was in jail and no one knew when she might be getting out. I guess he got Child Services involved because the next thing I knew I was going home with him. He had himself appointed my legal guardian and I lived with him until I finished school and went on to a two-year program. The War had broken out by then, and, of course, he enlisted. I think he ended up working in Intelligence. I used to get letters from all over. After the war, he came back and decided to open up his own detective agency and he hired me as his office manager, girl Friday." Tilly finished the story even as she finally pulled in behind a large dark gray building. "I'm up on the third floor. We go up the fire escape to get there."

Tilly helped Miss Avonlea get her suitcases up to the apartment. It was a very large single room with floor to ceiling windows on one wall. Tilly had divided the large room into little rooms by using carpets and free-standing room dividers. The only room that had its own door was a small bathroom complete with a toilet and a shower. The sink was outside the little room.

"I have a phone by the bed. There's a hot plate and a toaster in the kitchen. I get cheap day-old bread from the bakery down the road, so feel free to make yourself a sandwich."

"A little lunch actually sounds wonderful," Miss Avonlea told her.

The two women threw together a couple of spam and cheese sandwiches.

"Weaver. He's been good to me and . . . well, he's like a father to me," Tilly began.

Miss Avonlea smiled, "You want to know my intentions towards the man?"

"I do."

"I . . . I like him . . . a lot. He seems to be a thoroughly decent guy, and I know I'm bringing chaos and some real danger into his life. I don't want anything to happen to him. I know, I'm probably not . . . oh hell, I'm definitely not good enough for him." Miss Avonlea ran her hands through her hair. "I guess, I'm going to try to finish up the business I'm in . . . as fast as I can . . . and then . . . I'll be moving on."

"He's had his heart broken too many times. I'd hate it if anything happened to him," Tilly told her honestly.

"I'd hate that, too," Miss Avonlea told her, looking her in the eye.

 **The Alexander Hotel**

"The question is, then, which one of these two will you represent? It has to be one or the other," Jones persisted.

"I wouldn't say so," Weaver told him.

"Who else is there?"

"Well . . . there's me," Weaver answered.

Jones sat back and stared at him, finally erupting into hearty laughter. "Very good, very good. It's wonderful, sir, wonderful. I do like a man that tells you right out that he's looking out for himself. Aren't we all? I don't trust a man that says he's not."

"Yeah, yeah," Weaver waved him off. "Now, let's talk about this Black Bird."

Jones agreed, "Yes, let's." He stared at Weaver for a moment. "Mr. Weaver, do you have any conception of how much money can be gotten for that Black Bird?"

Weaver shook his head, "No."

Jones leaned forward, "Well, sir, if I told you . . . if I told you half . . . you'd call me a liar."

"No . . . not even if I thought so," Weaver told him smiling. "You can just tell me what it's worth, and I'll figure out the profit."

Jones regarding him closely. "You mean, you really don't know what the bird is?"

Weaver waved him off "I know what it's supposed to look like. I know the value in human life that you people put on it."

"Miss Avonlea didn't tell you what it is? Jefferson didn't tell you either?"

"He offered me five thousand for it," Weaver told him.

Jones scoffed. "Five thousand! Hah!" He considered silently for a moment before speaking. "I hadn't considered this. Perhaps neither one of them actually knows exactly what the Black Bird is."

"I haven't been given much from either of them to go on. Jefferson didn't say he knew, and he didn't say he didn't. Miss Avonlea said she didn't know . . . but I took it for granted that she was lying."

"With Miss Avonlea that is not an injudicious thing to do." Jones thought another moment. "Well, if they don't know, then I'm the only one in the whole, wide, sweet world who does."

"Great. After you've told me, that will make two of us," Weaver told him.

Jones nodded, "Mathematically correct, sir, but I don't know for certain that I'm going to tell you."

Weaver smiled at the man, "That would be foolish. You know what it is. I know where it is. That's why I'm here."

"You know where it is? And where might that be?"

Weaver didn't respond.

"Ah," said Jones. "You see? I must tell you what I know, but you will not tell me what you know. That is hardly equitable, sir. No, no, I don't think we can do business along those lines."

Weaver got to his feet. "Whatever. Listen, you need to think again and think fast. I've already told that gunsel of yours that you'd have to talk to me before you got through this. I'll tell you now that you'll do your talking today or we're through. Don't waste my time. I can get along without you." Weaver narrowed his eyes. "And I don't want that grey weasel following me anymore, do you understand? I don't handle being followed well." He started for the door. "You've got until five-thirty. Then you're either talking to me or you're out for keeps."

Weaver stepped out of the apartment and pushed the elevator button. When the door opened, he stepped inside. As the door closed, the second elevator's door opened, and Jefferson stepped out.

 **The District Attorney's Office**

Weaver sat in a red faux leather upholstered chair across from a large dark wooden desk. The District Attorney, David Nolen, sat behind desk. He was a blond man, above average height with pale blue eyes. He looked most like the collegiate quarterback he had been, physically dominating the room. Also, in the room, sat a dark-haired woman, lithe and lovely. She held a pad and a pen at the ready waiting to record the conversation.

"Who killed Nottingham?" Nolen began.

"I don't know," Weaver answered promptly.

"Humm," Nolen nodded. "Perhaps you don't know, but I suspect you could make an excellent guess."

"My guess might be excellent, or it might be crummy, but my father didn't raise any children dippy enough to make guesses in front of the district attorney and a stenographer."

"Why shouldn't you guess if you've nothing to conceal?" Nolen pressed him.

"Oh, David. Everyone's got something to conceal."

"What are you hiding, Weaver?"

"My guesses, for one thing," Weaver told him.

"Come along, Weaver. How about if I ask Mary Margaret here to leave? We can chat without having our conversation recorded," Nolen offered.

"I don't mind having her here," Weaver replied. "I'm willing to have everything I say put down and I'm willing to sign it."

Nolen shook his head reassuringly. "Now, now. I don't intend asking you to sign anything. This isn't a formal inquiry at all." Nolen leaned forward. "Please don't think I have any belief in any of those theories that the police seemed to have formed."

"I'm glad of that," Weaver said truthfully. "So, what is your theory?"

Nolen didn't respond right away. He looked Weaver in the eye. "You tell me who Gaston was shadowing Nottingham for, and I'll tell you who killed Nottingham."

Weaver shook his head, chuckling.

"Now, don't misunderstand me, Weaver. I'm not saying your client killed Nottingham, or even that your client had Nottingham killed. But if I knew who your client was . . . well, I think I'd be able to figure out who killed Nottingham."

"That's where you're mistaken," Weaver told him.

"It's not for you to judge if I'm mistaken," Nolen said sharply.

"I thought this was just a little informal chat."

"I'm a sworn officer of the law. Neither formality or informality justifies you holding evidence of a crime from me . . . except on constitutional grounds."

"My justification is that my clients are entitled to a decent amount of confidentiality." Weaver stood. "Now, you and the police have both accused me of being mixed up in the other night's murders. Well, I've had trouble with both of you before. As far as I can see, my best chance of clearing myself from any involvement is to bring you the murderers all tied up. My only chance of catching them is by keeping away from you and the police because both of you gum up the works." Weaver looked over at Mary Margaret. "Getting all this all right, dearie, or am I going too fast for you?"

"No sir, I'm getting it all right," she told him.

"Good work," he told her and turned back to Nolen. "Now, if you want to go to the board and tell them I'm obstructing justice and ask them to revoke my license, then hop to it. You've tried it before and it didn't get you anything but a good laugh all around." He stood and started for the door.

"Now wait," Nolen was now standing.

"And I don't want any more of these informal chats. I've got nothing to tell you or the police and I'm tired of being called on the carpet by police detectives and now, by you. If you want to see me, pinch me, subpoena me, or whatever, and I'll come down with my lawyer."

Weaver left, letting the door slam behind him.

 **Back to the Office**

He made his way back to his office. Tilly was nowhere to be seen and he assumed she was babysitting Miss Avonlea. He was about to go into his own inner office when he heard someone – the little gray man. He was still wearing his gray raincoat and holding his hands in the pockets. One of the pockets bulged.

Weaver smiled, "Now, I didn't expect to see you until five twenty-five. I hope I haven't kept you waiting."

"Yeah, keep going with that smart mouth of yours and they'll be picking iron out of your liver," the man snarled.

Weaver laughed. "The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter. Well, now, let's go."

They went back to the Alexandria Hotel and rode up the elevator door with just the two of them in the elevator car. It stopped on the eighth floor and the gray man stepped out. Weaver lagged behind, and as they approached the door, he leaned over and suddenly grasped the man by both arms just beneath the elbows. When the man attempted to kick back, he hit air – Weaver had already adopted a spread leg stance. In a whirlwind of movement, Weaver dropped his hands down the man's arms and into the smaller man's pockets. Weaver stepped away pulling a snug-nosed semi-automatic pistol out from the smaller man's pocket. He checked the lock on the pistol and put it into his suit pocket.

"Come on with you," he gestured for the gray man to precede him into the apartment.

Jones was waiting for them and greeted Weaver eagerly, "Ah, come in, sir! I see Heller was able to find you. Thank you for coming."

Heller, the gray man, shut the door behind them as Weaver came on into the room. Before he sat down, Weaver took out the pistol he had taken from Heller and handed it over to Jones.

"You really shouldn't let him go around with this thing. He's going to hurt himself."

"Ha!" Jones seemed more amused than distressed. He took the gun and returned it to Heller who glared at Weaver, and then went on into the adjoining bedroom.

"I owe you an apology, sir . . . for . . ."

Weaver interrupted, "Oh never mind all that. It's hard to find good help. Let's talk about the Black Bird."

Jones nodded, "Of course, of course. Direct as always. Are you comfortable? This tale takes a little time." He handed Weaver a whiskey and pointed to the box of cigars. Weaver took the drink.

"Now this is going to be the most astounding thing you have ever heard. And I say that to you, sir, knowing that a man of your caliber, in your profession, must have heard some astounding things in his time."

Weaver didn't say anything, just nodded to indicate he was listening.

"What do you know, sir, about the Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem, later called Hospitallers?"

Weaver had pulled a cigar out to light it. "Crusaders or something, weren't they?"

"Very good," Jones was pleased. "In 1539, these Crusading Knights persuaded Emperor Charles V to give them the Island of Malta. He made but one condition. They were to pay him, each year, the tribute of a falcon in acknowledgment that Malta was still under Spain. Do you follow me?"

Weaver nodded.

Jones looked around to be sure that the door to the bedroom was shut and then lowered his voice. "Have you any conception of the extreme, the immeasurable wealth of the Order at that time?"

Weaver nodded again, "I imagine they were pretty well fixed."

Jones smiled at him. "Pretty well fixed, indeed – to put it mildly. They were rolling in wealth, sir. For years they had taken from the East, nobody knows what spoils of gems, precious metals, silks, ivories . . . . We all know that the Holy Wars to them were largely a matter of loot."

Weaver blew out a deep breath from the cigar.

"Now, the Knights were profoundly grateful to the Emperor Charles for his generosity toward them. They hit upon the happy thought of sending him, for the first year's tribute, not an insignificant live bird, but a glorious golden falcon encrusted from head to claw with the finest jewels in their coffers."

Jones sat back taking a drink from his own glass. "Well, sir, what do you think of that?"

"Pretty fantastic," Weaver told him.

"It is, but nevertheless, it is quite true. These are facts, not schoolbook history, but history nonetheless."

Weaver nodded and took another drink.

"The Knights sent this foot-high jeweled bird to Charles, who was then in Spain. They sent it in a galley commanded by a member of the Order." Jones's voice again sank to a whisper. "It never reached Spain. A famous buccaneer took the galley and the bird. In 1713, it turned up in Sicily. In 1840, it appeared in Paris. It had, by that time, acquired a coat of black enamel so that it looked like nothing more than a fairly interesting black statuette. In that disguise, it was, you might say, kicked around Paris for more than three score years by private owners who were too stupid to see what it was under the skin . . . Then in 1930, a Greek dealer living in Paris, named Zoso Konstantinides found it in an obscure shop." Jones stopped to laugh and take another drink. "No thickness of enamel could conceal value from his eyes."

Jones took a moment to refill his own glass and then Weaver's.

"Are you beginning to believe me a little?" he asked.

"I haven't said I didn't," admitted Weaver.

"Well, sir, to hold the falcon safe while pursuing his researches into its history, Zoso re-enameled the bird. Despite that precaution, however, I got wind of his find." Jones sighed deeply at this point in his story. "Oh sir, if I had only known a few days sooner. I had been working with a very clever woman – a woman named Cora Mills. She was . . . is . . . a very beautiful, very clever and very dangerous woman. We'd had a close . . . ah . . . association some years ago, but things . . . well, things don't stay the same and at that time, we were no longer - friends. Cora was aware of my research and departed to Paris before me. I was in London when I heard, and I packed a bag and took the ferry immediately. I arrived in Calais and took the train to Paris. On the train, I bought a newspaper. When I opened it, I read that Zoso's establishment had been burglarized and he had been . . . he had been murdered. And sure enough, upon arriving at his estate, I discovered that the bird was gone."

"You suspect this Cora Mills offed the guy and stole the bird?" Weaver asked directly.

"Cora disappeared at that time also and it was more than ten years before she re-surfaced as Countess Cora de Serea, passing herself off as Russian aristocracy. She had built herself a virtual fortress on one of the Greek isles."

"And this is where Miss Avonlea comes into the story?" Weaver asked.

"It is, indeed, sir. Miss Avonlea was working for the Countess as a companion and secretary using the name Bridget O'Shaughnessy. I was able to prevail upon her to search the house and locate the Black Bird. She was quite successful and, having Cora's complete trust, she was able to just walk out of the house with the Bird."

"So, what happened then?" Weaver was genuinely curious.

"Well, you've met the very engaging Miss O'Shaughnessy, or as she is known now, Miss Avonlea. She decided that the bird was worth more to her than what we were paying her. She . . . ah . . . convinced a very dangerous individual, Keith Nottingham to help her get out of Greece and on to Marseilles, likely telling him some damsel in distress story."

"You don't think she told him about the Bird?" Weaver asked.

"I don't think she would have shared any more than she had to with Mr. Nottingham. He was not a particularly trustworthy individual," Jones shared.

"But somewhere along the line, Mr. Nottingham did begin to suspect that Miss Avonlea was not being completely on the level with him and perhaps he happened upon the bird," Weaver speculated.

"That's my own theory too sir."

"But this bird, doesn't it belong to Zoso's family, his heirs?"

"Well sir, you might say it belonged to the King of Spain. I don't see how you can honestly grant anyone else clear title to it – except by right of possession." Jones leaned forward. "Well, now that you know the story, we can talk money. How soon can you . . . how soon are you willing to produce the Falcon?"

"A couple of days," Weaver admitted.

"That would be satisfactory," Jones told him. He held up his glass. "Well, sir, here's to a fair bargain and profits large enough for both of us."

Weaver raised his own glass and both men drank.

"Now," Weaver began, "What's your idea of a fair bargain?"

Jones replied slowly with deliberation, "I'll give you twenty-five thousand dollars when you deliver the Falcon to me and another twenty-five thousand later on. Or, I'll give you one-quarter of what I realize on the Falcon. That would amount to a vastly greater sum."

"How much greater?"

Jones shrugged. "Who knows? Shall I say one hundred thousand? Would you believe me if I name the sum that seems the probable minimum?"

It was Weaver's turn to shrug. "Why not?"

"Well," Jones lowered his voice again. "What would you say to a quarter of a million?"

Weaver expelled air forcefully. "Then you think that the dingus is worth a million?"

Jones sat back, "In your own words, why not?"

Weaver drained his glass and set it on the table. "That's a lot of dough."

"A lot of dough," Jones confirmed.

"And that's the minimum, huh? Well, what's the maximum?"

Jones shook his head. "The maximum I refuse to guess. You'd think me crazy. I don't know. There's no telling how high it could go, sir, and that's the one and only truth about it."

Weaver lifted a hand to massage the back of his neck. He was feeling strange, woozy, dizzy. He slowly stood but then wavered, reaching for the table edge to steady himself. He took a step forward, uncertain on his feet.

"Heller!" Jones called out to the little gray man.

And the door to the bedroom opened and Heller came out. The two men watched Weaver take several unsteady steps, finally dropping to his knees. A third man, Jefferson, joined them coming out of the bedroom. Weaver registered that the three men were there in the room with him, but he was unable to stop himself from slipping to the floor into a drugged sleep.

 _NEXT: Miss Avonlea disappears._

 _The Black Bird makes an appearance._


	6. Up to My Neck

_Weaver has deposited Miss Avonlea with his loyal, trust-worthy office manager for safe-keeping. Meanwhile, he has met with Jones and learned the fantastic history of The Maltese Falcon. He is considering coming to an agreement with Jones for the return of the bird when he begins to lose consciousness, slipping to the floor, dimly aware of Jones, Heller, and Jefferson leaving him in the hotel room._

 **The Black Bird**

 **Chapter 6**

 **Up to My Neck**

Weaver didn't know how long he'd been asleep. He could tell it was dark out, so he assumed it had been at least an hour. He pulled himself up and, steeling himself, he managed to take a few steps and find a light switch. The apartment seemed to be empty. Weaver went from room to room, not finding anyone. Still moving awkwardly, fumbling, he made his way to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He began a slow search of the suite, taking covers off the beds, shifting the mattresses, removing cushions from the chairs and looking through the drawers of the dressers, but finding nothing of consequence.

It was past seven when he made his way back to his office. He unlocked the door and found his Tilly lying on the couch in his office. As he came in, she raised up, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Oh, thank goodness. When I couldn't get you on the phone I came back to the office," she said.

"What's up?"

"What else? Miss Avonlea. I got her over to my place and we had a little supper. Then she said she wanted to lie down and when I went to check in on her a bit later . . . she was gone."

"Gone? What the hell is going on?"

"Do you think something's happened to her, Weaver? You said she was in some real danger."

Weaver didn't answer her question, instead asking, "Did anyone follow you to your place?"

"I don't think so, I went all around town, down some back ways and I didn't spot anyone."

"So, if she didn't stay with you, it was because she didn't want to," he surmised.

Tilly nodded. Weaver was standing in the light, and Tilly noticed that he had a bruise on his forehead. "Hey now, what happened to you?"

"Oh, I went visiting this afternoon and got fed some knockout drops. I came to just a little while ago, still spread out on the floor where I dropped off. I must have hit my head when I went down."

"It looks bad."

"Probably looks worse than it feels." He touched his forehead and winced. "Or not."

"Do you think . . ." Tilly began. "Do you think what happened this afternoon had anything to do with Miss Avonlea disappearing?"

"Probably," Weaver agreed. "I'm heading out and I'm going to try to find her if I have to dig up sewers. Stay here till I come back or until you hear from me. Let's try to do something right for a change."

 **Figuring Things Out**

Weaver found himself back at Jefferson's hotel, the Belvedere, checking in with the night clerk. "You've got a guest named Jefferson?" He slipped a twenty over to the clerk.

"That one! Yeah, he's here."

"Any chance I might be able to check out his room? I believe he's in 305." Weaver shifted another twenty over to the clerk.

"Well . . . a slim chance," the clerk told him. When Weaver slipped a third twenty in the clerk's direction. "I'm going to leave my post for a couple of minutes."

In the clerk's absence, Weaver took the spare room key and went up to check out Jefferson's room. The man spent a small fortune on his wardrobe but other than that, Weaver wasn't finding anything notable. He went through the dresser, the man's suitcases and didn't find anything beyond silk boxer shorts, cashmere scarves, and Italian shoes. He then checked the wastebasket, thanking Saint Jude that the housekeeping staff for the hotel was slack. He pulled a newspaper out of the trash. It had been folded with the classified advertising page on the outside. Weaver opened the paper and noticed a small section had been torn out. Above the tear was a small caption, "Steamships Arriving Today."

Weaver went back downstairs and laid the keys on the counter.

"Do you happen to have today's newspaper?" he asked the clerk and was grateful the man passed it over without any more money having to change hands.

He found the section regarding the arrival of steamships and read through the listing of those that were due to arrive. There was one that caught his attention, "La Paloma from Marseilles: 8:37 pm."

"Thanks," he returned the paper.

"Any time."

 **The Dock**

As Weaver made his way down to the docks, he heard sirens and soon enough he encountered firetrucks and billowing smoke. It was coming from the deck of the large ship moored in the harbor. He pushed his way through the crowd of spectators. He was stopped at a barrier by a police officer but was able to get through after showing his identification. He joined in with a crowd of reporters, additional policemen and sailors whom he assumed were hands on _The Paloma._

He could hear one of the sailors talking with a police officer. "It started in the hold, aft, in the rear basement."

A reporter interrupted, "What insurance was she carrying?"

The mate shrugged, shaking his head – _he didn't know._

"Anybody caught in the fire?" Weaver asked.

"No, thank goodness," the sailor answered. "Only the harbor watch was aboard."

Weaver was able to get close to the sailor. "Listen, someone I know came aboard this afternoon. I haven't heard from her since. I . . . I'm really worried."

"No reason to be worried, Mister. Everybody got off all right."

"Did you happen to see her - a little over five feet, dark hair, bright blue eyes?"

Again, the sailor shrugged and shook his head. "Didn't see her, but if she came aboard, then she got off all right. Only the harbor watch was aboard when the fire started."

 **The Delivery**

Weaver returned, frustrated, to his office. He was sitting on the sofa in his office with a cooling wet towel on his forehead. Tilly was sitting next to him, watching over him. He'd been telling her the whole story of the Black Bird as well as Jones and Company's involvement.

"So now, Angel. You know as much about it as I do. Maybe they all went down to the ship, maybe not."

"Oh Boss, all that part about the bird is thrilling."

"Yeah, thrilling . . . or ridiculous."

"How's your head doing?" she asked. Before he could answer they were both distracted. Someone was stumbling down the hallway outside of the office. Tilly sprang up to go to the door, but Weaver was up and intercepted her before she could open the door.

"Hold on," he cautioned her. She stepped aside for her boss.

Weaver opened the outer door to the office and he was confronted by a small man with stark features. The man was clothed in a black overcoat. He was carrying a newspaper-wrapped parcel bound with sisal.

"For you," the man rasped out and began to fall forward. Weaver reached out and caught the man, gently lowering him to the floor. There was a wheezing sound and the man went still, his eyes frozen. The parcel was still clutched to his chest.

"Lock the door," Weaver told Tilly who promptly did as she'd been told. Weaver felt the man's neck, trying to feel for a pulse. He opened the man's coat and ran his hand down the man's body. When he pulled his hand away, it was smeared with blood. Weaver then pulled out his lighter and waved it back and forth, then to and fro in the man's face, but there was no change in the man's pupils, no flicker of movement.

Weaver shook his head, cut off the lighter and returned it to his pocket. He took a moment and to search the inside pockets of the dark overcoat. He pulled out a wallet from one of the inside lapels. He opened the wallet and found some papers. He quickly perused the papers and then set the wallet and the papers aside.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Tilly asked him, her voice sounding tiny in the dimness of the office.

"Yeah. He couldn't have come very far with those bullets in him." Weaver shook his head. "Why couldn't he have stayed alive long enough to say something." He looked up at his young assistant, her eyes wide with fright. "You gonna be all right?"

"Yes, I think so. I've just never been this close to anybody who's been shot before."

"Good girl. Let's see what we have in this parcel." Weaver picked up the bound package, stood up and set the package on Tilly's desk. He pulled out a pocket knife and began to cut the ropes off, then began to pull off the brown paper wrapping.

"Do you think . . . ? Could it be?" Tilly began.

"We'll soon know," Weaver told her, even as he continued pulling off the brown paper.

And then there was an enameled statuette of a black falcon sitting on Tilly's desk.

"Well, well, well. We've got it, Angel. We've got it!" Weaver told her. He might have said more, but the telephone rang.

Tilly took a deep breath and answered the phone, "Weaver Detective Agency . . . Yes . . . Who? . . . Oh, yes. . . . Where . . . Where are you? . . . Hold the line a second . . . Hello . . . Hello . . . Hello?" Tilly looked up at Weaver. "She's gone. It was Miss Avonlea. She wanted you. She's in danger."

"Where is she?"

"Chestnut and Merrimon, Number 26 . . . Oh, Weaver . . . her voice, it was awful. And then it sounded like something happened to her before she could finish. You need to go help her."

Weaver glanced at the body on the floor. "We've got to take care of this fellow first."

"No, you've got to go right now to find her. Don't you get it? He was helping her and now they've killed him . . . and now, she's in danger . . . you've got to go now," Tilly urged him.

"All right," Weaver agreed. He wrapped up the black bird in the shreds of brown paper and put some tape on it here and there. He gave her directions even as he finished re-wrapping the statue. "As soon as I've gone, phone the police. Tell them how it happened but don't mention any names. Say I got a phone call and I told you I had to go out, but I didn't say where."

Tilly nodded.

"And don't mention this thing," he nodded at the statue. "Tell it as it happened but, forget the bundle. Get it straight. Everything happened the way it happened, but without this dingus and I answered the phone."

"Yes, all right. Boss. . . who . . . do you know who he is?"

"He was Captain Will Scarlet, Master of the _La Paloma._ "

"All right then. You, hurry along,"

He was about to go out the door, carrying the package when he turned and glanced back over the room. "You might want to pick up the bits of string and paper before the police come." Tilly nodded. "And keep this door locked until they get here."

"Yes, Boss," she told him, fatigue sounding in her voice.

Weaver took the service elevator and, still carrying the brown paper wrapped package, crept along darkened hallways, going out the back door of the building, stepping out into the alleyway. He made his way swiftly down the streets, stopping to look behind him and all around himself from time to time. _He had to be absolutely certain he wasn't being followed._

Weaver came out from between the maze of backstreets and alleys and made his way over to the city's bus terminal. He slipped inside the building, ignoring the buzzing sounds from the overhead fluorescent lights and droning, bored announcer, who was calling out for the next bus leaving. At the counter, Weaver gained the clerk's attention.

"Just need to store this a while," he told the clerk, setting his parcel on the counter. The clerk shrugged and handed Weaver a receipt before taking the parcel and placing it in a small locker which he locked.

Weaver took the receipt. "Got an envelope?"

The clerk nodded again. "You need a stamp?"

"Why yes, I do. Thank you," Weaver agreed, handing the clerk some change to cover the cost. Weaver wrote out his post office box address on the envelope. He slipped the receipt into the envelope and sealed it. Looking around, assuring himself no one was watching, he left the terminal to drop the envelope into a corner mailbox.

Weaver then started to look for a taxi. There were several lined up outside the bus terminal. He spotted someone he knew.

"Hey, Grumpy!" he greeted the irascible, frowning driver, who brightened up when he recognized Weaver.

"Well, hey Weaver. What can I do you for?"

"Got plenty of gas?" Weaver asked even as he slipped into the front seat of the cab.

"Sure thing."

"Know where Chestnut and Merrimon is? I'm heading to Number 26."

"Of course," Grumpy responded. "I know every street in this town." Grumpy cranked up the taxi and pulled out into the street. Weaver looked behind them to be sure there were no other headlights pulling out at the same time.

"Heard about your partner," Grumpy shared. "That was tough."

"Yeah," agreed Weaver.

"I'd still trade you my racket for yours," Grumpy told him.

"Well, no one lives forever."

They drove for several minutes before pulling into a suburban street lined with cozy cottages, many built in the 1920s - neat places with well-cared-for lawns and dainty flower beds.

"That's sixteen," Grumpy told him as they went by one of the houses. "Your address should be on the next block."

"Park on the corner, would you?"

Grumpy nodded and pulled over to the curb. Weaver got out and looked at the house numbers. He passed twenty-two, twenty-four and then hit a vacant lot. The next house was twenty-eight. He waved to Grumpy who cranked up the cab and slowly moved up to where Weaver was standing. The cab moved to a stop and Weaver got in.

"Bum steer, Weaver?" Grumpy asked.

"I guess. Let's go back into town. Stop if you see a diner or a drug store that's open."

Grumpy waited while Weaver went into a drug store to make his call. "Tilly? Heard anything? . . . No, it was a vacant lot . . . And you're sure it was Miss Avonlea? . . . How'd it go with the police? . . . Great . . . They didn't take you in, did they? . . . Good . . . Go back home, honey, and get a good night's rest." He hung up.

Back in Grumpy's cab, he directed the taxi-driver to take him home.

"Thanks and goodnight, Grumpy," he told the little, bald man before stepping out of the cab to head upstairs. Weaver tipped him generously, knowing that he would likely need Grumpy's forbearance on some future trek and wanting to stay in the man's good graces.

"Night, Weaver. Anytime."

Weaver watched as the cab drove off. He headed back towards his apartment, stepping into the vestibule to search for his key to the door that would open up to the stairway that led upstairs to his place.

Maybe it was her scent, her unique special fragrance but, somehow, he felt her presence, even before he heard or saw her.

Her arms had gone around him. "Oh, thank god! I thought you'd never come!"

He turned and put his arms around her, feeling her trembling. Somehow, still holding her, he managed to put the key in the lock to open the door, ushering them both inside and off the street.

"You've been waiting?" he asked.

"Yes. I've been hiding in the doorway here. It felt like hours!" she told him breathlessly.

"Let's get upstairs. Can you make it?"

She snuggled into him, feeding on the warmth of his body. "Yes, I think so. I just need a moment to . . . get somewhere . . . I can . . . lie down."

Weaver looked at her in the dim light. There was a bruise on her right cheek. He frowned.

"What happened here?"

"Jones. I didn't want to involve your Tilly. I had to sneak out on her, so I could meet up with someone. Jones caught up with me and . . . well, it didn't go so well," she explained.

Weaver helped her make her way up the stairs. She clung to him even as he unlocked the door to his apartment. They stepped inside, and he reached over to turn on the light.

. . .

There sitting in his small living room was Killian Jones, looking as suave as ever, smiling benevolently at them. Heller and Jefferson stood in different corners, both carrying pistols, which they promptly trained on Weaver.

"Oh, good," Jones began. "All the players are finally together. Now, you two come on it and take a seat. We should be comfortable while we talk."

"Yeah, please, make yourself at home," Weaver told him, even as he led Miss Avonlea over to the small couch. They both sat down. Weaver watched Heller circle around to come and stand behind the little couch.

"Let's have your gun," Heller told him.

"Who says I'm carrying a gun?" Weaver snapped. "If I were, don't think you could make me give it up, not to you. Your boss isn't going to want me shot up before we can have our little chat."

"Leave him," Jones told Heller. He turned to Weaver shaking his head, "You certainly are one headstrong individual."

Jefferson pulled up a dining table chair to sit on the edges of the group. Heller continued to stand behind the couch, behind Weaver and Miss Avonlea, his pistol in hand.

"Well now," Weaver began. "Are you ready to make the first payment and take the Falcon off my hands?"

He felt Lacey shift. She was surprised, but she had the good sense not to say anything.

"Well, sir, as to that . . ." Everyone in the room leaned forward. "As to that," Jones repeated. And he took out a white envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. In a quick flick of his wrist, he launched it, in a spinning, twirling arc. It landed precisely in Weaver's lap.

Slowly, his eyes still on Jones, Weaver opened the envelope. He counted out the stiff, new bills.

"Ten thousand . . . We were talking about a lot more money than this," he reminded Jones.

Jones chuckled, and he nodded in agreement. "Yes, sir, we were. But this is genuine coin of the realm. With a dollar of this, you can buy ten dollars of talk." Jones sat back and seriously he shared, "There are more of us to be taken care of now."

Weaver returned the bills to the envelope, folding the flap over and tucking the envelope into his jacket pocket.

"Yes, yes. That may all be true . . . but, I am the one who has the Falcon," he reminded Jones.

"That is true," Jones agreed. "I wouldn't think it would be necessary to remind you, Mr. Weaver, that though you may have the Falcon, we certainly have you."

Weaver grinned at him. "I'm trying not to let that worry me." He then leaned back on the couch, enjoying Lacey's arms as she reached them around him. "We'll come back to the money later. There's another thing to be taken care of first. We've got to have a fall-guy."

Jones frowned but did not reply.

Weaver continued, "The police have got to have someone they can pin those three murders on."

"Three?" Jones questioned.

"There's now Captain Scarlet to add to the list," Weaver told him. Lacey, snuggled into his side, gasped.

"Not Will?" she had whispered

"Sorry, Precious, but he didn't make it," Weaver whispered back to her.

"But that would mean that there are two . . . only two murders that need a murderer, Mr. Weaver. Nottingham undoubtedly killed your partner," Jefferson corrected him.

"All right then, two. What difference does it make? The point is, we've got to give the police . . ."

"Oh, come, come, Mr. Weaver. You don't expect us to believe at this late date, that you are the least bit afraid of the police or that you are not quite able to handle . . ."

Weaver interrupted. "I'm up to my neck in this, Jones. I've got to come through with somebody when the time comes. If I don't, then I'll be it." Weaver looked around. "Let's give them the punk." He nodded at Heller. "He actually did shoot Nottingham and Captain Scarlet, didn't he? Anyway, he's made to order for the part. Let's turn him over to them."

Heller didn't say anything, just frowned and glowered at Weaver.

Jones began to laugh. "My god, Weaver. You are a character, that you are." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. "There's never any telling what you'll say or do next except that it is bound to be something astonishing."

"It's our best bet. With him in their hands, the police will . . ."

It was Jones's turn to interrupt. "But, my dear man, don't you see that if I even for a moment thought of doing such a thing – oh, but it's ridiculous. I feel toward Heller just exactly as if he were my own son. Really, I do. But if I thought of doing as you propose, what in the world do you think would keep Heller from telling the police every last detail about the Falcon and all of us."

Weaver snorted, "Let him talk, talk his fool head off. I promise you that nobody will do anything about it."

Jones laughed again and turned to Heller. "What do you think about this, Heller? It's mighty funny, huh?"

"Yeah, mighty funny," Heller agreed grimly.

Weaver turned to look at Miss Avonlea. "How are you feeling now, Angel? Any better?"

She nodded. "Yes, I'm much better, only . . ." she leaned in and whispered, "I'm still frightened."

Weaver smiled warmly at her, "Don't be. Nothing very bad is going to happen."

 _NEXT: Weaver produces the Black Bird_

 _A.N. Sorry about Will. -twyla_


	7. Revealed

_The Black Bird has landed in Weaver's lap. He has placed it in a bus terminal locker and mailed himself the pick-up receipt. Lacey, who had left Tilly's apartment, has turned back up on his doorstep, and together they find that Jones and his entourage are waiting for them in Weaver's apartment. Before Weaver will turn over the Black Bird, he insists they produce someone they can give to the police for the murders of Keith Nottingham, Miss Avonlea's partner, and Will Scarlet, the captain of_ La Paloma _._

 **The Black Bird**

 **Revealed**

 **Chapter 7**

Jones cleared his throat and sat back, "Well, sir. If you're really serious about this, the least we can do in common politeness is to hear you out. How . . . how would you be able to fix this . . . so that Heller couldn't do us any harm?"

"Nolen's like most district attorneys. To be sure of convicting one man, he'll let half a dozen equally guilty accomplices go free. I can show him that if he starts fooling around - trying to gather up everybody, well, he's going to have a tangled mess of a case. But, if he should stick just to Heller here, he can get a conviction standing on his head."

Heller vaulted forward, coming around to the front of the couch where Weaver was sitting.

"Get up!" he ordered. "I'm tired of taking all this crap from you. Get up and we'll shoot it out."

Weaver didn't move. He smiled and shook his head. "Jones, maybe you ought to tell him that shooting me _before_ you get your hands on the Falcon would be bad for business."

Jones had to agree. "Now, now Heller. Calm down. We can't have any of that. Weaver's just running his mouth. Don't let it get to you."

"Make him stop!" Heller demanded.

Jones nodded. "Now Heller . . ." He turned his attention back to Weaver. "Your plan, sir, is not at all practical. Let's not say anything more about it."

Weaver bit his lip, "All right then. I've got another suggestion. It's not as good as my first idea, but it's better than nothing. Want to hear it?"

"Absolutely," Jones assured him.

"Give them Jefferson."

Jones laughed again but quickly became serious. "Well, sir . . ."

He didn't finish. Jefferson had shot to his feet. "Suppose we give them you, Mr. Weaver. Or Miss Avonlea? How about that?"

Weaver shrugged. "You people want the Falcon. I've got it. A fall-guy is part of the price I'm asking." He glanced back, looking into Miss Avonlea's eyes. "And if you think she can be rigged for the part, I'm perfectly willing to discuss it with you." Lacey held his gaze then gave him a slight smile.

"You seem to forget sir," Jefferson was raving. "You are not in a position to insist on anything."

Weaver waved him off. "Oh, come on now. Let's keep this discussion on a friendly basis. But there certainly is something in what Jefferson says." He stood and looked down at Jones. "If you kill me, how are you going to get the bird? If I know you can't afford to kill me, how are you going to scare me into giving it to you?"

"Well," Jones began. "There are other means of persuasion besides threatening to kill."

"Sure. But they aren't much good unless the threat of death is behind them. See what I mean? If you start anything, I'll make it a matter of you having to kill me or calling it all off."

Jones nodded. "That is an attitude, sir, that calls for the most delicate judgment on both sides – because, as you know sir, in the heat of the moment, men are likely to forget where their best interests lie and let their emotions carry them away."

Weaver smiled. "And the trick from my angle would be to make my play strong enough to tie you up, yet not make you mad enough to bump me off – against your better judgment."

Jones laughed, "By god, sir. You _are_ a character." Jefferson rose and walked over to Jones. He leaned down and whispered in the man's ear

Weaver watched them and glanced over to Heller. "Two to one, they're selling you out, kid."

Heller had had enough. He pulled his pistol from his pocket and held it out. Weaver was on his feet in an instance and popped Heller under his arm causing the man to release the gun which flew up and into Weaver's other hand. Jefferson had stepped across the room to join the fray and together he and Weaver wrestled Heller to the floor. When Heller continued to kick, spit and try to punch the two men, Weaver sighed and with a closed fist he landed a punch on Heller's jaw. Heller crumbled.

Jefferson pulled away from the fray allowing Weaver to keep his attention on Heller, examining his face. "Nothing's broken." He searched Heller's jacket and pockets, pulling out two other pistols. He then turned to face Jones. "Here's our fall-guy."

When Jones did not answer, Weaver continued. "Either you'll say 'yes' right now, or I'll turn the Falcon and the whole lot of you in."

Jones pursed his lips, "I can't say I like this, sir."

"So, what? You don't like it." Weaver shrugged, pocketing the three pistols into his own pockets.

Jones seemed sad, but resigned, "All right then, you can have him, sir."

"Great," Weaver told him. He looked at his watch. "It's one in the morning. I can't get the bird until daylight . . . maybe later, mid-morning."

Jones nodded. "It would seem to me that it would be best for all concerned if we did not get out of each others' sights until our business has been transacted. You have the envelope?"

Weaver reached into his inside pocket and was surprised that the envelope was not there. He glanced back at the sofa, remembering feeling her warm arms around his waist. "Miss Avonlea has it."

Lacey smiled at him. "Yes, I have it." She produced it from a pocket in her skirt. When Weaver looked at her, she explained, "I just thought I should hold on to the money."

"That's all right then. Hold on to it. We won't have to lose sight of each other. The dingus will be brought to us here."

"Excellent sir, Excellent," Jones was happy to hear this. Then, in exchange for the ten thousand dollars and Heller, you will give us the Falcon and an hour or two of grace."

Weaver was agreeable. "Let's get our details straight. Why did Heller shoot Nottingham and why and where . . . and how did he shoot Captain Scarlet? I've got to know all that happened, so I can be sure the parts that don't fit are covered up."

Jones interlaced his fingers and leaned back in his chair. "I shall be candid. Nottingham was Miss Avonlea's ally. We believed that disposing of him in the manner we did would cause Miss Avonlea to stop and think that perhaps it would be best to patch up her differences with us regarding the Falcon."

"You didn't try to make a deal with the guy before giving him the works?

"Oh, yes, we did. We most certainly did. I talked to him myself that very night, but I could do nothing with him. The poor fellow was quite determined to remain loyal to Miss Avonlea. . . . So, Heller followed him back to his hotel and did what he did."

Weaver took all this in. "All right then. That sounds all right. Now Scarlet . . .?"

"Captain Scarlet's death was entirely Miss Avonlea's fault."

Lacey stood, "What? No way, you pirate!" she protested. "Will was one of the nicest guys I've ever met, and I never wanted anything bad to happen to him."

"Tell me what happened," Weaver said.

"Well, Jefferson, as you must have surmised, got in touch with me after he left his chat with Detective Swan yesterday. He recognized the mutual advantage of pooling forces," Jones smiled at Jefferson. "Mr. Jefferson is a man of considerable acumen. _La_ _Paloma_ was his thought. He saw the notice of its arrival in the papers and remembered that he had heard in Marseille that Scarlet and Miss Avonlea had been seen together. Well, sir, he put two and two together, guessed the truth – Miss Avonlea had given the bird to Scarlet to bring here for her."

"Ah, and at that juncture, you decided to slip me the mickey, right?"

Jones apologized, "There was no place for you in our plans, sir. We decided to spare ourselves any possible trouble. Mr. Jefferson, Heller, and I all went to call on Captain Scarlet. We were, we thought, lucky enough to arrive at the same time as Miss Avonlea, meeting on the docks and never going onto the ship. In many ways it was a difficult conversation, but, in the end, we finally . . . ah . . . persuaded Miss Avonlea to come to terms . . . or so we thought."

Jones paused a moment before continuing. "We left the dock and set out for my hotel where Miss Avonlea was to arrange for delivery of the Falcon and receive payment."

Jones smiled at Lacey and turned back to Weaver. "But sir, we should have known better. Miss Avonlea is a most worthy adversary. It seems that she had already been on board _La Paloma_ , even before we arrived and had already talked with the good Captain Scarlet. She neatly slipped through our fingers – claiming feminine needs and ducking into a Ladies Room. We never saw her come out. It was neatly done, well done," he complimented Lacey who gave him a thin smile. "Then, running out of our options, we returned to the ship to try to intercept Captain Scarlet."

"Did you set the boat on fire before you left?" Weaver asked.

"Well, not intentionally, though I dare say we, or Heller at least, were responsible for at least one fire. While the rest of us were looking on board ship for the good Captain, Heller went around the ship trying to find the Falcon. No doubt, he was careless with matches."

"All right," Weaver followed the explanation. "How was Captain Scarlet shot?"

"Well, when we realized that we'd lost both Miss Avonlea and Captain Scarlet, we began to look for them and found them in her apartment."

"How'd you find her apartment?"

"Oh, recognizing her as a most worthy adversary, finding her apartment had been one of our first priorities when we came to town. Heller had spotted her and followed her early on, likely when she'd first left your office," Jones told him. "Once we got to her apartment, I sent Heller out to watch the fire escape and then I rang the bell. While she was asking us who we were through the door and we were telling her, we heard a window go up. Heller shot Scarlet as he was coming down the fire escape – shot him more than once. But Scarlet was too tough to either fall or drop the Falcon. He climbed the rest of the way down, knocked Heller over and ran off."

"Angel," Weaver turned to Lacey. "Could you step into my kitchen and fix us all some coffee?"

Lacey nodded and stepped away from the small sitting area, disappearing into the Weaver's efficiency kitchen.

"There isn't a back way out through your kitchen, is there?" Jones asked him.

"No, not even through the window," Weaver told him.

"It's good to be careful around that woman, Mr. Weaver. She's not someone you should place too much trust in."

"I'll try to remember that."

Jones sighed and then continued. "When the shots were fired, Miss Avonlea pulled away from the door and dear Mr. Jefferson was able to use some of his skills to pick the lock, so we could let ourselves in. We then . . . ah . . . persuaded, yes that is the word, we persuaded Miss Avonlea to tell us where she had told Captain Scarlet to take the Falcon. And we . . . ah . . . further persuaded her to phone your office in an attempt to draw you away before Scarlet got there. But, unfortunately for us, it had taken too long to convince Miss Avonlea to cooperate . . . "

He was interrupted by Heller's groaning.

Jones continued. "And by then, of course, you had the Falcon before we could reach you."

Heller had struggled to sit up, his hands checking for his pistols which he did not find. Jones looked at him sadly.

"Well, Heller, I am sorry indeed to lose you. You know, I couldn't be any fonder of you if you were my own son. But well, by god, if you lose a son, it's possible to get another, but there's only one Maltese Falcon."

Heller looked at Jones, not quite believing he was being sold out.

"When you are young, you simply don't understand these things," Jones told him.

Lacey returned with some coffee.

"Still have the envelope, my dear?" Jones asked her.

She nodded, pulling it from her skirt pocket.

"Why don't you leave it here," Jones suggested. Lacey looked at Weaver who nodded. She handed it off to Jones.

"Sit on it if you're afraid of losing it," Weaver told him.

"You misunderstand, sir. It is not that at all. I believe business should be transacted in a businesslike manner." He opened the envelope and counted the bills. "For instance, there are only nine bills here now." Jones spread them out on his knee. "But there were ten when I handed you the envelope, as you very well know."

Weaver looked at Lacey, "Well?"

"I didn't touch it," Lacey shook her head. "I promise, I didn't take anything."

Weaver looked back at Jones. "I want to know about this." He considered before addressing Jones again, "You palmed it."

"I palmed it?"

"Yes. Now either you admit it, or I'm going to search you. There's no third option."

Jones laughed, "I believe you would . . . I really do. You are such a character."

"You palmed it," Weaver repeated his accusation.

Jones nodded, pulling the tenth bill from his vest pocket. "That I did, sir. Just an impulsive moment. Wanted to get a feel for your faith in Miss Avonlea."

"Asshole," Lacey whispered under her breath. She turned back to Weaver, "Hey, how about some food. You've got some bread in your kitchen and cold cuts?"

"That sounds excellent, Angel," Weaver told her and watched as she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Jones replaced the pilfered bill back into the white envelope and offered it to Weaver. "This will be yours soon. You might as well take it."

Weaver reached for it and pocketed it, "I ought to have more than ten thousand."

"Of course, sir," Jones agreed. "You understand that this is just the first payment. Later. . . "

"Later, you'll be sending me millions. Ri-ight. How about fifteen thousand now?" Weaver pursued the issue.

"Frankly and candidly, and on my word of honor as a gentleman, ten thousand is all the money I could raise at the moment."

"All right then," Weaver capitulated.

Jones lowered his voice, "I'd like to give you a word of advice."

"Go ahead."

"I dare say when this is all over, that you'll give Miss Avonlea some money. But if you don't give her as much as she thinks she ought to have, my word of advice is . . . be careful."

"You do think she's dangerous?"

"Very," Jones told him. "Probably more so than anyone else in this room."

Lacey returned with a plate of simple sandwiches and the four of them pulled off the plate, eating a couple of sandwiches each.

Jones glanced at his watch. "It's after seven now, sir. Can you start getting it now?"

"I guess so," Weaver agreed. He went over to the telephone and dialed. He waited for someone to answer.

"Hello, Precious . . . Sorry to get you up . . . Yes . . . very much so . . . In my box at the Post Office, you'll find an envelope with my scrawl. Inside the envelope, there's a receipt. Get the receipt and go to the bus station and check their parcel storage – that's what the receipt is for. Hand it in and you'll get that little bundle we got yesterday . . . Uh huh . . . When you get the bundle, bring it to me PDQ . . . Yes, I'm at home . . . Yes, Precious. I need you to hurry . . . thanks."

 **Nearly Eight**

It was now nearly eight in the morning after a long night. It was light outside, but the lights in Weaver's apartment were still on. Jones was sitting, smoking a cigar and reading from Weaver's book _Celebrated Cases._ Heller was fast asleep on the little couch. Jefferson was sprawled out in a chair, his long legs extended in front of him and his head hanging forward. He appeared asleep. Lacey was sitting across from Weaver at his small dining room table in one corner of the living area. She and Weaver were both drinking coffee. Several other coffee cups were set on the table, along with a now mostly empty second platter of sandwiches.

Weaver got up to turn off the electric lights. Jones looked up, watching him.

The doorbell rang.

"You don't mind if I go to the door with you, do you?" Jones asked Weaver.

Weaver shrugged, and the two men went out into the foyer. Weaver opened the door. Tilly was there, and she handed over the parcel.

"Sorry to start your day off like this." Weaver apologized.

"Hey, it's not the first one you've ever spoiled. Anything else?" she asked him.

"No, Precious. Take the rest of the day off." Tilly waved goodbye and stepped away from the door.

Weaver shut the door and carried the parcel into the living room, setting it on the table. Lacey and Jefferson both stood, coming over to the table. Heller lifted his head, but he remained on the couch, staring at the others.

"Well, here you are," Weaver announced stepping away from the package.

Jones quickly peeled off the layers of brown paper that encased the package. "After seventeen years," he muttered. He picked up the black bird statue that had finally been revealed. "Finally." He set it back down on the table and pulled out a pocket knife.

"Is it the Falcon? The real Falcon?" Jefferson asked.

"Let's find out," Jones replied, and he began to shave off layers of the black enamel. Splinter after splinter of black enamel came off, but nothing beneath the enamel was revealed except dull grey metal. Jones began to forcefully hack at the statue, but still, nothing remarkable was revealed. Jones suddenly dropped the knife and stepped away from the table.

"It's a fake!" he announced.

Weaver turned to Lacey. "All right. You've had your little joke. Now tell us about it."

"No, there's nothing to tell. I swear that's the one I took from Cora. I swear," Lacey told him.

Jefferson turned on Jones. "You bungled it. You and your stupid attempt to buy it. Cora knew it was valuable and she had a copy made. No wonder we had so little trouble stealing it. You imbecile! You idiot!"

Jones sighed. "Yes, yes. This is certainly Cora's hand at work." He sighed again and turned back to Jefferson. "Well, sir, what do you suggest? Shall we stand here, shed tears, and call each other names or shall we go back to Greece?"

Jefferson had collapsed in one of the chairs at the table. He didn't answer.

"For seventeen years I have worked for that little item and I've been trying to get it. If I must spend another year on the quest, well, sir, that will be an additional expenditure in time of only . . ." he did some mental calculations "of a little more than five percent."

Jefferson forcefully blew out some air. "Right then. I'll go with you."

"And Heller?" Jones looked over at the couch. It was empty. "Heller!"

Weaver quickly moved to the front door. It had been left open. He returned to the living area shaking his head. "A swell lot of thieves you lot are."

"We have little enough to boast about sir, but the world hasn't come to an end just because we've run into a little set-back. I'll have to ask you for the envelope." And Jones extended his hand.

"Hell no," Weaver told him. "I held up my end – you got your dingus. It's your hard luck that it wasn't what you wanted."

"Now come now sir," Jones began persuasively. "We've all failed and there's no reason for expecting any of us to bear the whole brunt." And Jones pulled a small pistol, ornately engraved and inlaid with silver, gold, and mother-of-pearl. "In short sir, I must ask you to return my ten thousand."

Weaver grimaced, but looking at the gun, he pulled the envelope from his pocket and, in front of Jones, he opened it and pulled out a single bill. "This should take care of my time and my expenses." He handed the envelope back to Jones.

"Thank you, sir," Jones told him, taking the envelope. "Now, we will be saying goodbye to you . . . unless . . . unless you'd care to undertake the Greek expedition with us. You are a man of good judgment and considerable resources."

"No, thank you. I've had enough of you lot to last me a lifetime."

"Well sir, the shortest farewells are the best. I'm sure you'll somehow manage the police without your fall-guy."

"I'll figure something out," Weaver told him.

"I shall leave you Miss Avonlea to contend with and . . . "Jones turned to Lacey, "to you, my dear, I'll leave this little black bird . . . as a memento."

Jones and Jefferson both stepped out of the apartment. Weaver stood by the door, making sure they were gone and then dashed to the telephone.

"Get me Swan," he told the person on the other end of the line. "Swan? Yeah, this is Weaver. I've got something for you . . . Here it is . . . Nottingham and Scarlet were both shot by a little guy named Heller, about five feet, four inches tall, in a gray raincoat. He's working for a man named Killian Jones. You can't miss him, he's got a paunch and a hook for a hand. That fellow Jefferson is with them too . . . Right . . . They just left here for the Alexandria Hotel, but they're blowing town, so you'll have to move fast. . . No, I don't think they're expecting a pinch . . . Oh, Swan, watch yourself when you go up against Heller . . . That's right . . . Good luck, Swan."

Weaver hung up the phone and turned to Lacey.

"All right. They'll talk when they're nailed – about us. We've only got minutes to get set for the police. Tell me everything, Lacey. Don't leave anything out."

 _ **NEXT: Miss Avonlea tells her story and this tale reaches its conclusion.**_


	8. The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

**The Black Bird**

 **Chapter 8**

 **The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of**

 _After a torturous series of events, a fall guy (Heller) is selected and the black bird is delivered. The company is crushed to find the bird is a fake and Heller escapes during the confusion. Jones and Jefferson elect to continue their pursuit of the bird and take their leave of Weaver and Miss Avonlea. Weaver calls Detective Swan to alert her of the imminent departure of Jones and company._

"Tell me everything, Lacey. Don't leave anything out."

Lacey shook her head, "Darling . . ."

"Talk," Weaver insisted. He was in no mood for simpering or seduction.

"Well . . . uh . . . where . . . where should I begin?" she asked.

"Let's start with the day you came into my office. Why did you want Nottingham shadowed?"

"I told you. I suspected him of betraying me and I wanted to find out."

Weaver shook his head, "That's a lie. You had Nottingham all tied up and you knew it. You wanted to get him out of the way before Scarlet came with the dingus. Isn't that so?"

Lacey bit her lip and . . . finally, nodded. "I thought Keith would get bored and move on long before I no longer needed his help. I had no idea when I enlisted his help that he would want to see the job through."

"So, just what was your scheme?"

"I thought that if Nottingham thought he was being followed, he might become frightened and he might go away. He really wasn't the bravest . . . or the smartest chump around."

"Gary wasn't the brightest chump around either, but he wasn't so clumsy that he'd be spotted the first night. You . . . you told Nottingham that you thought he was being followed."

Lacey hesitated, but then again nodded, "You're going to think I'm awful." She blinked back tears. "Yes, yes, I told him. But I had no idea that Nottingham would kill Mr. Gaston."

Weaver considered. "Gary wouldn't have gone down a dark street, keeping his gun tucked away, while he was following a dangerous suspect."

"I had told Gary I would meet him there . . . Honestly, I didn't know that Keith would turn the tables, follow Gary and then kill him."

"Are you sure, dearie?" he asked her. "It would seem to me that any way you played your hand you'd get what you wanted. If Keith ended up in a face-to-face with Gary, then one of them would go down. If Nottingham was the one to go down, then you'd be rid of him. If Nottingham took out Gary, well, the police would come along, and you'd still be rid of Nottingham."

"Maybe," she admitted reluctantly and sniffed.

"You didn't stick around and pull the trigger of Nottingham's gun, did you? Just to be sure things worked out in your favor."

Lacey stood up, her eyes were now bright with anger. "I told you I didn't mean for Mr. Gaston to die. I . . . I miscalculated, badly miscalculated." She took a deep breath. "When I got involved with Jones . . . well, I had no idea of what I was getting into. I was in way over my head before I realized just how far these people were willing to go."

"All right then. Say I believe you. You only came back to me when you realized that Jones was here, and he was looking for you. You'd lost your protector by that time . . . so you came back to me."

Lacey dropped her eyes. "I would have come back to you, sooner or later. I knew the first minute I saw you, I knew I would come back to you."

Weaver glared at her. "How can I believe you? You haven't played straight with me for five minutes at a stretch since I've known you."

"But you do realize that I . . . really care about you, don't you? I've never felt about anyone how I feel about you. I'm beginning to believe that I may be in love with you. Don't you know, Weaver?"

"I don't know. I don't know." _He wasn't sure of his feelings for this woman. She was bewitching and enticing, but . . . totally untrustworthy._

She sniffed again. "Perhaps . . ." she began slowly. "Perhaps if I start before I showed up in your office."

Weaver sat down. "Go ahead."

"My real name isn't Lacey Avonlea."

" _Quelle surprise_ ," he responded.

"It's Belle French."

"Miss French," he nodded a greeting.

"I'm actually a librarian."

Weaver blinked. _He wouldn't have suspected that._ "Really? How the hell did you get mixed up in all this?"

"Well, being a librarian doesn't pay very much and . . . it's not very exciting. So, I began to look for some ways to . . . ah . . . augment my income and, perhaps, travel a little."

"So, you became a treasure hunter?"

"Oh no, well, not at first," she explained. "I began working for some of the big insurance companies. You see, when something valuable goes missing, whether it's lost or stolen, the insurance company would rather recover the item than pay on the premium. They pay the person who recovers the item, hmm, usually, it's about ten percent of the premium which in some cases is quite a lot of money."

"You're an insurance recovery agent then?"

"Free-lance. I found I was really good at the job."

"And how did you get involved with the Falcon?"

"Oh that. Well, as a librarian my specialty is antique books. I came across the story of the Maltese Falcon in some of the books I was curating."

"And you decided to go after it?"

"Oh god, no," she told him, and she picked up the black statuette. "To be honest, I suspect that whole story is a myth. Even if it is true, by now the jewels would have surely been stripped off and the gold melted down." She came over and sat down next to him. "I was looking for some stolen jewelry."

"Jewelry? Tell me, did you find it?"

She shook her head. "I had a lead, but it didn't pan out. Please understand . . . "

She might have said more, but there was a knock on the door.

It was Swan.

"You get them?" he asked, allowing her to come in.

"More or less," the police detective told him.

"I've got some evidence to hand over." He pulled Heller's guns out of his pockets. "These are a couple more of Heller's guns. I suspect they'll match up with the bullets pulled out of Nottingham and Captain Scarlet, and this one," he held up a small white pistol, "belonged to Jefferson. Oh, here's a thousand dollar bill I was supposed to be bribed with." He handed them off to Swan.

"Oh, there's also this," Weaver showed the black bird to Swan. "This is what all the fuss has been about."

"What is it?" Swan asked picking up the statue and examining it.

"Apparently, the stuff that dreams are made of."

"What?" the detective questioned him and shook her head. "Thanks for the warning about Heller. He'd gunned down Jones before we got there and then began firing wildly on us. We had to return fire and . . . we took him down. The only one we got out alive was this Jefferson character. I suspect he's at most an accessory, but I don't know if we'll have enough to hold him."

"So, Heller shot Jones. I might have suspected that would happen," Weaver said as much to himself.

"Well, you're off the hook for this one," Swan told him. She picked up the black bird along with the other evidence. "Want this back when we finish up our loose ends?" she asked.

Weaver glanced at Belle, "Yeah, I think so," he answered.

Swan looked at Belle but didn't follow up with finding out who she was. "Thanks," she told Weaver on her way out.

They were left alone.

"Well, I'm guessing that you'll be heading off now," Weaver said.

"I think I might hang around town for a bit," she told him.

"Is that so?"

"I think so. You see, I met this guy – really nice, very attractive, a straight-shooter. I like him a lot, and I think he likes me."

Weaver smiled, "Ah, but, dearie, does he trust you?"

"Oh hell, I don't trust myself – especially around him."

"Sticking around for a while then?" he confirmed.

"A while. I guess I'll need to look for some honest employment," she told him. "You wouldn't consider taking me on as a junior partner of sorts?" she asked.

"You have any experience working as a detective?" he asked.

"I could give you some references from Lloyd's of London . . . and, oh yes, I've done a couple of jobs for Interpol," she told him.

"Right." He clearly didn't believe her.

She shrugged. "Well, it was worth a shot. I think that diner down the block could use another waitress. Maybe I'll check in with them."

"That diner job would probably pay more," he muttered as she was about to walk out the door. She stopped.

"Although the company here would be better," she told him, looking back at him.

"The hours suck," he warned her.

"But I'd have my own office," she countered.

"We'll give it a trial. Say, two weeks? If either one of us doesn't like it, you'll walk."

"I'll walk," she agreed.

 **Two Weeks Later Early Morning**

"What do you think about her?" he was talking with Tilly.

"She's pretty good, Boss."

"You're just saying that because she brings you coffee in the morning," he told her.

"Yeah, that and she's already resolved a divorce case to the satisfaction of everyone, which got us a nice bonus. And she located that so-called stolen diamond bracelet and got it back for the client with the husband not being any wiser. Oh yeah, that got us another bonus and a couple of new clients due to Mrs. Stolen Diamond Bracelet's gratitude."

He shrugged, "Beginner's luck."

"She also convinced Zelena that she deserved to go on a nice, long single's cruise with Gary's life insurance money, so she'll be out of our hair for a couple of weeks."

"That is nice," he agreed.

"So, you gonna hire her full-time?" Tilly wanted to know.

"I think I'll make an offer."

"Great going Boss. I approve."

There was a discreet knock on the door and Swan poked her head in. "Hey all. I'm returning that black bird. Got all the paperwork for the case in and things are all tidied up in record time. D. A. Nolen is thrilled and I'm up for a promotion because of how neatly this case worked out."

"Congratulations," Tilly told her.

"Yeah." Weaver took the bird back. "Glad things worked out well for you."

"And you, too. I've been able to send a couple of clients your way. There are just some things the police can't help with, but you can." Swan followed Weaver into his office. "Is it true that you've taken on that Belle French woman as your partner?" she asked, sitting down in one of his leather chairs.

"Yes. She's got some experience. Plus, she's quick on her feet which is a valuable attribute in a private detective."

"Did you ever find out who she really is? I mean, the woman seems a bit shady and I wouldn't be surprised to find out that she's got an outstanding warrant or two somewhere – although probably under different names."

"Perhaps, but unless it comes up, I'm satisfied with her work."

"Your funeral," Swan told him, standing up to go.

At that moment, Belle came in. "Oh hello, Detective Swan. I hear you're up for a promotion because of all your good work in the black bird case."

Swan was surprised. "Yeah, I just found out about half hour ago. How . . . how did you know?"

"Oh, a lot of mornings I have breakfast with a delightful cab driver, Grumpy, I mean Mister Grummel. He's dating a woman who works as a clerk in D.A. Nolen's office. She told him and he told me all about it."

"Great," Swan told her. "Maybe I should start having breakfast with Grumpy," she said on her way out.

"He's a pip. We meet at the diner on the corner at seven. Come join us."

"Sure." They heard Swan as she made her way out.

Belle looked around. "Got the bird back! Nice."

"Your two weeks are up," Weaver told her.

"So, what's your verdict? Do I stay on or am I looking at that diner again?" Belle asked him.

"I'm not sure about adding your name to the door. Weaver and French doesn't have much of a ring. Maybe I could go for Weaver and Associates – that would work."

"It could," Belle agreed.

"I was thinking . . . " Weaver paused, and Belle looked at him curiously. He didn't finish.

 _He'd been having increasingly frequent thoughts about making their relationship something more permanent. Impulsively, without careful intelligent consideration, he had bought a ring, but he still wasn't ready – and he sure as hell didn't think she was ready. Their relationship was still fragile, still in the early stages where they were building trust._

"What?" Belle asked.

"Nothing." _Maybe another time, after more time. Then he'd share his feelings._ "I'll ask Tilly to add 'And Associates' to the door."

"That's wonderful. You are a darling man." Belle kissed him soundly. "Now, would you give me a moment, please?" she asked turning her attention back to the black statuette. She was turning it upside down and pressing on it in different places.

"You got a knife?" she asked him.

"Yeah."

She held out her hand and he pulled his knife out and handed it over. Belle took the knife and began to actively work on the base of the statuette, using the knife to peel off more layers of enamel.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Looking for closure," she told him. "I told you I'd been looking for some stolen jewelry and had ended up working for Cora, as a sort of companion, before I connected with Jones. I was investigating her link to a whole string of jewelry thefts that had occurred in Paris and posh places up and down the Cote d'Azur nearly twenty years ago."

Belle had gotten most of the enamel peeled off and was prying around the base of the statue. She continued, "I'd discovered that years ago, Jones and Cora Mills had been long-time lovers. To support themselves, they would frequent big-name casinos and parties given by Old and New Money all over Europe. They would take turns, casting out their nets to see who might bite. While one of them kept their target busy, the other would pilfer through their rooms and take things of value, usually jewelry. They graduated into doing some real breaking and entering, using explosives from time to time – that's how Jones lost his hand – one of their devices went off prematurely. Except for that little mishap, they were really quite successful. But then Cora got a better offer, someone who had real money, and a title, and was somehow willing to marry her. So, she left Jones flat, took the jewelry they had stashed and left him all alone and penniless."

"I'd wondered what had happened to his hand," Weaver admitted.

"Yeah, well while he was lying in the hospital healing up, he chanced on one of those antique books about legends and the Church. Mostly conspiracy theory stuff, I think, but the Maltese Falcon was mentioned. He became obsessed with locating it about that time, about, what he said, seventeen years ago."

"All that time, chasing a phantom," Weaver observed.

"He survived," Belle told him dryly. "He threw himself into the search for Falcon, and a couple of years ago, he located a statue of a black bird owned by Zoso, a Greek antique dealer who also happened to be another one of Cora's ex-lovers."

"Cora got around."

"You got that right. Jones became convinced that it was the real thing because Zoso was so secretive about it. After Cora offed Zoso and stole the statue, Jones was even more convinced that Cora had the genuine item, but was too stupid to realize what it was. I think she took it because she found out it had a hollow base and she needed a way to get the stolen jewelry out of France."

"So how did you get involved with Jones and company?"

"While I was working for Cora, Jones and Jefferson contacted me and asked me to steal the statue for them. Jones certainly couldn't go in and, well as you know, Jefferson is a gutless wonder. I agreed to the job, not really thinking that I was stealing the Maltese Falcon but . . ." She successfully pried the knife into one side of the base and there was a pop. "I wanted to locate the jewelry cache the woman had." She smiled and held up the statue. "What I thought all along. It's nice to be right."

"Good lord. What is all that?" Weaver watched as Belle dumped out the contents that had been hidden in the base of the statue. The desk was littered with brilliant colored gems.

"This," Belle held up a large green stone, "is the Witch's Pendant, worth about 50,000 pounds. And this," she held up a necklace which was sprinkled with deep red and clear sparkling stones, "is the Queen's Heart. It's insured for a million pounds." She gestured to the large pile of precious stones that had tumbled out of the statue. "Most of these are insured at obscene amounts. I turn them in, I get the reward and I remain an honest woman who lives happily ever after."

"So, that crazy story about the jewel heist that you told Swan earlier . . ."

" . . . is essentially true," she confirmed. "I've been on this case for more than a year, but it should set me up for life."

"I know you told me about this, but I never know when you're lying to me."

She stopped and looked at him. "I've told you more of the truth than any lies." She looked down at the desktop. "And I haven't told you any lies since coming to work for you. That's two weeks without lying and a new personal record."

Weaver ran his hand over the jewels. "What's that finder's fee again?"

"The standard is ten percent."

"And some of these are insured for half a million or even a million pounds?" he asked.

"You got it." She scooped them all up and opened his drawer to pull out a brown mailer envelope. She dumped the jewels into the envelope.

"So, you're going to be a rich woman?" he asked.

"I should make out all right. Certainly, I can give Miss Tilly a very nice bonus for putting up with me. She deserves it."

"And you still want to keep working for me?"

She smiled at him. "More than anything." She got up, "Now, I've got to take some pictures and send off a couple of telegrams so that I can arrange to make the exchanges." She slipped the envelope into her pocketbook, rose and gave him a kiss on the way out.

"I'll be getting back as soon as I can, and we can go out for lunch – my treat."

Tilly came into his office soon after Belle had left. "You asked her?"

He nodded. "She said yes."

"Partnership or marriage?"

"Marriage? Who said anything about marriage?" he asked his perceptive receptionist.

"You're kidding?" Tilly just snorted and shook her head. "She's head over heels about you and you're a complete basket case where she's concerned."

Weaver shook his head. "We still have some trust issues," he admitted.

"Okay, if that's how you want to play this," Tilly was on her way back out to the front office.

"Yeah, that's how I want to play this." He scowled at her but he knew his disdain rolled off her back. "We are going to go for a partnership – I'll need you to add 'And Associates' on the door."

"I'll get on it, Boss. Now, where did she go?"

"A little errand," he told her, absently picking up the bird from where Belle had set it after opening the bottom.

"You planning on keeping that bird?" Tilly asked him.

"I am."

"Why? I thought it was kind of a messy case."

"It was."

"So why are you keeping the bird?"

"Because it reminds me that dreams can come true," he told her. "Dreams can come true."

 **A.N. Much different ending than the movie. Since I've discovered that many of my readers are not familiar with the movie (and I'm staggered – this has been one of my favorites since my teens when I first discovered Bogey and it's hard for me to imagine that everyone hasn't seen it at least once), anyway, I won't be sharing Miss Wonderly/O'Shaughnessy's fate. Despite The Maltese Falcon's reputation as a classic, it does have some serious flaws. The casting is pretty near perfect with Sidney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, Elisha Cook, and Bogey – Mary Astor is the only weak link, we never like her or trust her (and can't figure out what Bogey sees in her). The storyline is virtually incomprehensible (the viewer is often left wondering, "Huh, what just happened?"). Hope you enjoyed it.**

 **I'm still in recovery from knee surgery which has been way more intense than I anticipated. Between the surgery, three weeks of opioid pain pills, a week of nausea from withdrawal from the opioids pain pills, I have been lax in my writing and I'm no longer a story ahead. I'll be back as soon as I'm feeling up to it (got a lot of ideas still). Thx all for your lovely support. -twyla**


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